


Katabasis

by sylvanWhispers



Series: Mythology AU [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gods & Goddesses, Alternate Universe - Mythology, M/M, Mythology - Freeform, Obsession, Ramsay Bolton is His Own Warning, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-31
Updated: 2020-11-17
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:47:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 60,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23409298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sylvanWhispers/pseuds/sylvanWhispers
Summary: Spring has come and the Driftwood Prince has finally escaped the Huntsman's realm. However, things are far from settled and the consequences of last winter continue to haunt him. While seasons change and Theon acts out the new cycle, he reflects on his past and contemplates his future, growing ever closer to accepting his role as the god of prey.Direct sequel to The Wild Hunt.
Relationships: Euron Greyjoy/Theon Greyjoy, Ramsay Bolton/Theon Greyjoy, Theon Greyjoy & Robb Stark, Theon Greyjoy & Yara Greyjoy
Series: Mythology AU [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1679944
Comments: 345
Kudos: 308





	1. Spring

**Author's Note:**

> Katabasis (κατάβασις [kuh-tab-uh-seez]) - a journey to the underworld

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the curious, at the end I have included an unfortunately long breakdown of the myth and history references I slipped in this chapter. I warn you, it is absurdly extensive.
> 
> The original fic was a bit more isolated, with the main two references obviously being to the Wild Hunt (a night on the new moon where spirits ride the earth hunting errant ghosts and travelers), and Hades’ abduction of Persephone to the underworld (which itself reflected the real-life custom of “bride kidnapping”). However this fic has more locations and more characters, and I just lost all restraint. I’m sorry.

Theon had never done well in enclosed spaces. If he couldn’t see the ocean he at least needed to be able to see the sky, to feel the wind blowing against him.

The air here was so heavy and dank he could have been miles underground for all he knew. The endless hallways twisted and turned on each other in seemingly impossible ways and several turns in the same direction somehow did not make a circle. Shadows moved in his periphery and screams echoed from afar, but he was yet to cross another soul in this cursed place. Time seemed to have little meaning and no matter how far he ran in any direction, he was yet to find so much as a window. It was like a nightmare, and Theon had lost track of how many times he’d wished that was all this was.

“Running again? Haven’t we already played this game?”

Theon’s stomach might as well have dropped to the floor and his heart damn near seized. The words were so soft-spoken, but they echoed clearly from all around him. He just couldn’t tell where from.

“I can smell you. You’re still bleeding. Don’t you think you should have a rest? So much excitement in one day isn’t healthy.”

Yes, Theon was bleeding. His meager rag of a bandage was dark and fully soaked through with his ichor. Pain was burning across his chest from where the madman had _flayed_ his fucking _skin_ off.

Fuck, was the voice getting closer? Despite his panic Theon had no idea of where he was supposed to go. Running through this dungeon was like trying to navigate a maze. Maybe that’s exactly what it was. Perhaps he had been tossed into the depths of a vast labyrinth, and was now being pursued by the bloodthirsty beast that dwelled at the center.

Theon picked a direction and hoped for the best. It was all he could do, and anything was better than staying still. He ran past innumerable doors, all of which looked like they’d creak loud enough to wake the dead. The last thing he wanted was to announce his location only to corner himself inside of a storage closet.

“We’re a bit old for hide and seek, but alright. I’ll play.”

The halls were silent as those last words faded into echoes. Somehow the quiet was worse. Theon tried to soften his footfalls without slowing his pace, searching desperately for some sign that he was going down a favorable path. Where in the hell _was_ he? Every hall somehow managed to look similar, but was still distinctive enough to show that he was in wholly new territory.

Theon was about to turn another corner when a strong arm hooked around his neck without warning, reeling him backwards and into the shadows. A door swung shut on him by its own power, slamming closed with a deafening bang.

He was tossed roughly to the floor. His head spun and his bare back stung as he was manhandled onto the cold stone.

“I win!” The Huntsman’s eyes were the first thing he saw in the dark, pale and alight with boyish glee. “What’s my prize, then?”

“Get off me!” Theon thrashed wildly in an attempt to free himself, but the other man barely budged.

The Huntsman tsked at him in disapproval. “Really now. You’ll hurt my feelings acting like that. I’m starting to think you don’t want to spend any time with me at all.”

“You’re insane!” Theon continued to struggle, powered by more pride than hope. “What the hell do you want!?”

“What do I want?” The Huntsman smiled like they were old friends telling jokes. “That’s a silly question. I _have_ what I want.”

Hands squeezed Theon’s hips, making his blood run cold. He was still sore and hurting from the first and last time, when the Huntsman had chased him down and taken him right in the snow. Surely he didn’t intend to keep Theon prisoner as some sort of bed slave? The idea was absurd - Theon was a god of high pedigree, sired between a titan of the deep and nymph born of sea and starlight.

“I have family,” he blurted, voice coming out somewhere between a threat and a plea. “They’ll come for me. Do you know who I am? My sister-“

“Your sister is far too busy to journey all the way out here,” the Huntsman said, ripping the soiled bandage from Theon’s still-open wound. “And I think we both know that the North King isn’t looking for you.”

“I don’t understand,” Theon said desperately, panic beginning to take hold. “I don’t know why you’re doing this.”

“It’s not really that complicated. I wanted you, and I took you, and nobody stopped me. Now here we are.” The Huntsman swept his hand about the room in a ‘ta-da’ sort of motion. “And as fun as this has been, I really can’t have you scarpering off whenever you want.”

He pulled out a gleaming knife from who knew where and used it to lightly trace the slowly bleeding wound on Theon’s chest.

“So how should I punish you? Will it be my blade or my cock?” The Huntsman laughed. “That is, you will be taking both. But I’ll let you choose in what order.”

Theon’s voice had abandoned him, his eyes wide and uncomprehending.

“What’s that?” The Huntsman cocked his head to the side. “You say you want _both?_ At the _same time_? My liege, I had no idea you were so… adventurous.”

Before Theon could vocalize his protests he was being pressed flat on the floor, his legs forced apart.

“You and I are going to have great fun together,” the Huntsman said, twirling his knife. “I can tell.”

* * *

Theon didn’t wake with a start, but with a shiver.

Huddled under multiple layers of furs, the scent of sea salt filled his nostrils. It served to slowly calm his nerves. He carded his hands through the sheets and reveled in the feeling of having all ten fingers. His sister had held him under the waves and facilitated his rebirth the previous morning, just as she did every cycle. Spring was here and he was whole again.

Never mind all the pieces of himself he’d left behind in the Dreadfort. There was no getting those back; they belonged to the Huntsman now ~~and always~~.

At night it became harder to shut out his own troubled thoughts. He lay in bed, endlessly thinking about the things Ramsay had said.

 _“You’re mine and I’m yours. Isn’t that lucky?”_ And then he would slide a blade under Theon’s skin, so sharp that it would take another moment to even realize the damage.

Maybe it was inevitable. Maybe there really was no hope. Round and around they were doomed to go for all eternity. But why? What awful force was it that kept them bound together?

Even from miles and miles away, Ramsay’s presence could still be felt. Theon’s dreams were full of heated touches and frosted chains, sharp knives and soft sheets. Conflicting sensations layered upon each other, leaving him disoriented and confused. More often than not he woke up weeping with his cock hard and throbbing beneath the furs.

Ramsay had always brought out the worst in him: Theon’s neediness, his shame, his desperation for attention and his tendency to wallow in his own misery. And yet… well. There was really no arguing that Theon had also been a far more callous and selfish man before their first winter. Being broken had humbled him in many ways. Ramsay had taught him many harsh lessons. Though Theon refused to be grateful, he also found himself realizing that even if given the choice, he would not go back to being the man he’d once been.

And that scared him more than he expected.

Theon pulled himself from his bed, the sudden movements causing vivid light to blossom from above as the luminescent plankton on his ceiling stirred. His sister’s palace stood proudly in the depths of her undersea realm but it was not a dark or cold place. Built from reef and stone and the interlocking hulls of sunken ships, it was the closest thing to a safe haven Theon had in this world. It wasn’t his, though. Everything here belonged to his sister and he hesitated to call the palace his home.

 _“You have a seafarer’s soul,_ ” his mother would say to him. _“Always searching for port, but never prone to stay there.”_

Maybe that was his curse. Among other things.

Theon sleepily wandered the coral halls, his feet bare on the pearlescent tile. A school of fish whirled past a set of porthole windows.

Yara’s guards and staff paid him little mind. The merfolk gave him proprietary nods from their posts but cast him stern sidelong looks as he passed. The nymphs attended to their tasks and averted their eyes entirely, but whispered amongst each other once he was gone. The Driftwood Prince had returned, back at last after yet another season of being a mainlander’s slave.

In the past Theon might have put on some sort of appearance or airs in an attempt to prove himself or salvage his reputation. Now he simply couldn’t be bothered. They all knew where he’d been.

If he wanted to meander about his sister’s house in his sleep clothes it was hardly going to damage his standing. Yara would give him snark and disapproving glares but she allowed it - there was little from him that she didn’t allow, in all honesty. It was only when he tried to sleep all day or skip his meals that she started threatening to drag him about by his ear.

He found her in her solar, a maid attending to some of the many bandages adorning her body. Even bloodstained and weathered, there was an undeniable air of power to Yara. She glowed with violent, hard won victory. The might of the sea burned within her dark eyes and it was easy to see why even the hardest of sailors eagerly pledged themselves at her feet.

“And I thought I was the one who passed through hell.”

Yara scoffed before waving her attendant off. “Nuncle gave a good fight. Always does. I gave him one better.”

“As you always do.”

“Hm.”

Euron would be licking his own wounds now, having retreated back to his stormy palace in the clouds. Hopefully he’d stay there for the rest of the cycle.

Yara looked Theon up and down. “You’re on your feet, then. Good. I thought you made it out better than last time, though that would be a low standard.”

“I suppose I did.”

They didn’t like to talk about what happened in winter. It was a topic they side-stepped or avoided whenever possible. For Theon it was a matter of shame and not wanting her pity. For Yara, she never seemed to know what to do with the information she was given. She didn’t know how to do comfort or sympathy, and her usual methods of violence and vengeance were of no use to her here.

Her attempts to intervene had never gone well in the past. Keeping Theon from going to the mainland never worked, with Robb always demanding his return. Yara often had no choice but to comply, with their peoples attempting to coexist as well as ill-fitting neighbors could.

“Maybe this year you’ll quit while you’re ahead and come home for autumn?” Yara asked wryly. “Instead of wandering the hills like a vagrant? Or whatever it is that you do?”

“You know why I can’t.”

Because they’d tried _that_ too. Without Theon the beasts ran unrestrained and wild, overhunting the prey until there was nothing to spare for winter. Even with him making a hasty return to restore the balance, much of the damage was done. So many people starved that year.

“You care too much about landwalker affairs,” Yara said irritably. “How their people survive should not be your concern.”

“I have responsibilities-“

“Your obligations should be here! To us!” She shook her head in disgust. “I grow weary of the same arguments, brother. I simply don’t understand why you’d take the risk when you know what awaits you out there.”

“It’s the least I can do.”

Yara looked at him cuttingly. “You’re still trying to make amends. You shouldn’t. There was nothing shameful about siding with your people.”

“I also grow weary of the same arguments, _sister_.” Theon folded his arms. “My choices are mine.”

“Even when they lead you to ruin, I know.” Yara scoffed. “Well. You’re here now. Spring has come and there will soon be need of you.”

With winter done with, the humans were often in dire need of some good news and better days. Festivals, weddings and other rites were imminent as the seeds were sewn for the next harvest. There weren’t many upbeat deities native to their people, so Theon had often gotten to play that role. Though it wasn’t one that fit him especially well anymore.

Celebrating love and fertility was a bit difficult when sex was definitively off the table, and there was nothing fun about being a spectator whilst everyone else ran off to fuck in the fields or behind rocks on the beach.

“Of course,” he said tightly. “You know I love to be useful.”

* * *

It was rather uncommon for a human to actively worship an entire pantheon. Far more standard was when someone opted for one or two gods and committed. The Driftwood Prince had always been a more passive deity; he was acknowledged or paid tribute on certain occasions or days, but didn’t really attract full-time devotees. That was fine. Gods had obligations to their followers, with devotees meaning additional responsibilities. Theon had never felt inclined to guard over or attend to any specific humans. Too much trouble, too much work.

Times had… changed. Or rather Theon had changed.

A small but fair number of humans had congregated together on the rocky shore. They stood solemnly in the dewey springtime mists as the priest delivered the rites. It was a humble ceremony, as salt unions typically were.

It was basic that different gods tended to resonate with certain target audiences. Everyone had their niche, and Theon was himself still moderately popular with archers on the mainland. However that had quickly been overshadowed by a larger, more vocal following in his own homeland. It was becoming increasingly common for him or his symbols to be included in paintings or carvings that depicted salt marriages, with more and more salt wives - as well as the occasional salt groom - pledging themselves to his worship.

It was not a development he could say he was especially enthused about.

He’d since been incorporated into many of the ceremonies, with the salt bride often receiving an arrow from the husband’s family. It would be kept in the household as a symbol of his protection and her fidelity.

Theon watched as the new bride accepted with shaking hands, clutching it like a lifeline as the final vows were given. He could feel the tug on his soul as she prayed. He wished that she wouldn’t. Didn’t she know that there was nothing he could do? He couldn’t help her. He could scarcely help himself.

A modest but comfortable wedding party was held on the beach, with tables and chairs assembled around a roaring bonfire. Songs were played and laughter was had, but it was more a celebration for celebration’s sake. The salt wife had no family nor friends here. She kept to herself as her new husband’s relations and shipmates reveled amongst themselves.

Theon couldn’t help but follow as she drifted closer to the shoreline, down where the rocks glistened wetly from sea spray. She stared out into the surf, still clutching the marriage arrow. She hadn’t put it down all night.

“I hoped you would come,” she said, avoiding his gaze. “They say you usually do, in this time of season.”

“I try. But I don’t know what aid you think I can provide,” Theon said cautiously. “Do you wish for an escape?”

He didn’t have the means to free every salt wife. Even if he did, his sister would not allow such a trespass. The captains were her loyalists, her devotees, and she backed their claims.

 _“It’s the right of conquest, Theon,”_ Yara would say, just before a pained look crossed her face.

As if he didn’t know all about it.

The maiden sadly shook her head. “I am just a common girl, m’lord. I have no name, no money, no prospects of my own. My family can hardly support me another winter, nor arrange me a good match. This captain of mine… he is a wealthy man with names and titles, and he has seen us lawfully wed. Even if I am lesser to his true wife and my children only inherit the scraps, they will still be valid and well fed. They will take his name and easily make their way. It is more than I could hope for back home.”

“Oh. I see.” Theon swallowed uncomfortably. “Then… what is it that you want?”

The maiden wrung her hands around her arrow. Her iron ring looked dark and heavy on her finger.

“They say you turned the Huntsman’s ire into love. That even in all his cruelty, his heart is softened only to you.”

“I…”

“Please, m’lord. My strongest memory of my husband is when he stole me from my home. I can’t help but fear him.” The maiden finally met his gaze with damp but determined eyes. “Help me to feel safe in my new house. Let my captain love me, so that he would never see me harmed or cast me out to starve.”

“I can’t control who loves whom,” Theon said, feeling unmoored. “But… you have my blessing. Your husband’s desire for you will never wane, and in his eyes your beauty shall never fade.”

The maiden held the arrow to her lips, tears dripping down her fair cheeks. “Thank you m’lord. I will honor you all my days and tell my children to do the same.”

Why? So they could craft gilded arrows for their own stolen brides someday?

 _I’m not like you_ is what he wanted to say, watching as the maiden was called away by her captain to be deflowered.

There wasn’t even a word for what Theon was. Ramsay had not taken him to any altar, small mercy as it were. While it was true that the Huntsman was trying to extract oaths from him now, the very idea of negotiating such a contract was exhausting. Even with the utmost diligence, Ramsay was horribly creative and would surely find some loophole or means of twisting Theon’s own words against him.

One could only hope that his devotees’ new husbands were kinder and easier men to please. If not… well. Theon still held sway with the ocean, and even the strongest of ships could find themselves lost at sea.

* * *

Spring was still a good season to Theon. Returning to the sea and his sister’s prickly embrace was always what he needed in the aftermath of winter’s horrors. He spent most of his days unbothered by others, watching the tide and overseeing the occasional vernal festivity.

Unfortunately it wasn’t long before he began to get restless. He itched for his bow. He itched for contact. It was undeniably lonesome in his homeland: his sister often busy with matters of greater importance, and he was largely scorned by the other deities in their pantheon. The other gods of sailing, fishing, mining… regardless of their affinity, they all had little esteem for him. His uncle Rodrik was an exception, as a rare god of wisdom and knowledge in their culture, but he reminded Theon too much of his mother for comfort.

Even the local goddesses, who Theon had once charmed so easily, now thought him pitiable at best. Their people’s ways were harsh, and their gods reflected that truth. Theon could see the judgement in their eyes every time he encountered them.

What sort of man was he, to be so dominated by an outsider? And with such unfailing regularity, too - was he really so foolish and weak, to be made another man’s bitch every single winter?

He wished he could make them understand. The Huntsman wasn’t just another man, and Theon had tried, tried _everything_ but no matter how close he ever got… there was just no winning.

Being the patron god of salt wives was not a role Theon had ever wanted for himself, but he felt obligated to see it through. How could he not? After everything he’d lived through, he did not have the cruelty to turn such women away. Most of them were strangers from far lands, taken from their homes and forced to make the best of their new lives.

Fortunately they seemed to know better than to pray to him for miracles. Instead they asked him for strength and comfort, for courage and their husband’s mercy. Eventually the lore caught on and the humans came to reinforce it to each other: be good to your salt wives, or the Driftwood Prince will shoot you down.

Some took the threat more seriously than others.

“It’ll be a hot winter’s day before I let a greenlander’s boywhore dictate how I keep my house,” the sailor said, slamming his cup down upon the pub table. “He slings arrows like a craven and spends every other season up north servicing cock, yet he seeks to decree what we can’t do with our wives?”

The other men mumbled amongst themselves, not disagreeing but also not so bold as to vocalize their thoughts.

It was nothing Theon hadn’t heard before. In most cases he let the insults pass; he was not the proud man he had once been. However he’d been hearing the cries of _this_ particular reaver’s bride for weeks now, and was not in a forgiving mood.

He waited until the crew next set sail to act. Only once they made it to open water did Theon draw back on his bow and strike the ship with a bolt of misfortune.

It still took a while before they realized something was amiss. After three days the lookout eventually spotted it: a dark shadow following the ship, disturbing the water whenever it swirled too close to the surface. Immediately the men were kicked into a frenzy, pushing their ship in an attempt to gain distance.

The kraken followed at a leisurely pace and a disquieting distance, with the winds only ever just strong enough to keep the crew on the run. He could tell they were praying to his sister, as if that would do them any good. A stalking kraken was a rather unmistakable omen of divine wrath. Theon watched detachedly as the crew turned on each other, throwing accusations and blame.

On the eighth day they’d had enough. With hands bloody from rowing and minds clouded from sleepless nights, the offending reaver was sent overboard. With his death Theon at last allowed the ship to make port.

Before even daring to set sail again their captain burned a beachside offering for the Driftwood Prince. He then wrote back to the islands, communicating the news and declaring his intent to marry the lost reaver’s salt widow. He’d keep her honorably and hold her in good esteem, or so he said.

They would see.

* * *

“Did you enjoy that?” Yara asked when next they met.

She had her hands on her hips, looking down at him as he sat somberly on the bluffs.

“I got a certain satisfaction,” he said, watching the waves crashing about his ankles.

“I surely hope so. Though I’ll thank you to not get too enthusiastic in your vengeance,” she said. “Our people’s way of life is not a kind one, brother. You cannot go about smiting every callous man.”

“It is not about vengeance. I was issuing a warning,” Theon replied stiffly. “Now that they know what my ire is worth, they’ll keep each other accountable.”

“Hm.”

He spared her a glance. “What is it? You came to scold me for killing one human?”

“Unfortunately no.” Yara frowned. “There’s been an incident.”

“No concern of mine, surely.”

“A ship of our people weighed anchor off the mainland and went ashore to resupply. They were ravaged by animals in the night.”

Theon’s hackles rose instinctively. “Bears?”

“Hounds. ‘Unnaturally large’ hounds.”

“Oh.”

“Yes, _oh_. I’m also hearing of new hostility from cults serving the Huntsman. Apparently they have it in their heads now that the skin of our people is ‘worth more’ as an offering. They've been throwing severed feet, cocks and tongues back into the sea so I can at least take our men's spirits back, but it's right fucked and bizarre.”

Theon tried and failed to not shrink under her gaze. “… Oh.”

“I knew last cycle felt different from the others. What happened?”

He shrugged weakly. “He might be a little more angry with me than usual this time.”

“I might not have guessed,” Yara said irritably. “He’s overstepping his bounds. He always has, but now our humans are getting actively hunted, taken for ritual sacrifice and rape. It’s unacceptable.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“ _You_ aren’t doing anything. The Huntsman is the North King’s problem to deal with. And he will deal with it, lest he wishes to deal with me instead.” Yara huffed. “Perhaps this will convince him to finally let you stay with me for the summer.”

“I doubt it.”

The first time Robb demanded Theon’s return was after the war. The dust had settled on a new world - so many humans dead, cities toppled, and many of the titans that had preceded the gods slaughtered. As soon as Robb awoke from his winter sleep, he called for Theon so that they could come to blows. Yara only permitted it for the sake of making peace and because she knew Theon would be protected by guest right.

It was since then decreed that to seal the treaty between their pantheons, Theon would return to the North King every summer and in exchange Arya would sail with the Queen Reaper. While Yara had developed a fondness for the girl, she still disapproved of the arrangement and tried to negotiate Robb out of it almost every cycle. Always to no avail.

She lightly touched his face and looked at him with a restrained sort of sadness.

“How did this happen, Theon?” She asked gently. “You always had a nose for trouble. But how did you step into such a mess?”

He wished he had an answer for her.

“I’m sorry.”

“I don’t want you to be sorry,” she said bitterly. “I want you to be home.”

 _I don’t have a home._ The words sat unspoken on his tongue, tasting of ash.

* * *

Weeks passed and the weather grew warmer. The freshly seeded fields had taken root, and sailors began to embark on lengthier journeys to provide for their new brides as they began to swell with child. Summer was on the horizon.

Theon could feel it in the air and in the tide. He knew his sister could too. The currant twisted and writhed around the undersea palace’s walls with her anger, the waves churning in kind up above. The mortals would take it as a sign that monsoon season was on the way.

“Secure your homes and watch for floods,” they would warn. “For the Queen Reaper is soon to lose her brother.”

He could hear the echo of her wrath from the throne room: the shattering of clay pottery, the thud of axes being thrown into walls. An endless stream of profanity.

“That obstinate son of a bitch!” Yara had a bit of nerve calling someone else obstinate, but Theon said nothing as he carefully sidled into the great hall.

It was in complete disarray, as expected. Splintered wood and broken crockery littered the floor. The staff and guards had all fled (or “politely given the Queen privacy”) and his sister was in the process of hacking a table into kindling.

“The North King’s given you his response, then.”

The table’s remains were sent flying across the room.

“You know what that cunt said to me?” Yara demanded, cutting through the air with her axe. Each swipe meant another rogue wave for some unsuspecting mortals to contend with.

“I wager he told you no.”

“He told me,” Yara hurled her axe into the opposing wall, sinking it blade-deep. Another axe materialized in her hand an instant later. “To cease my dissension. That he was growing _impatient_ with me. That he had hoped a queen of my caliber would know to prioritize the welfare of our pantheons and peoples over my _personal sentiments._ ”

Oof. Theon winced. Though Robb had never quite said so outright, it was a clear enough declaration that he did not intend to terminate the arrangement. Ever.

“And… about the Huntsman?”

Yara snorted. “He said he’s sent word to the Dread Lord to control his half-breed bastard. I shan’t hold my breath on it.”

“Right.” Theon sighed. “It’s alright, Yara. I’ll be safe with Robb.”

“You’d better be. If any harm comes to you in his house, he can’t say fuck all about me taking you back.”

It would never happen and they both knew it. But the thought was nice.

“I appreciate your concern for me,” he said. “I really do.”

“For all the good it’s ever done.” Yara grabbed him firmly by the wrist. “You will be careful out there. I care not what he says - the North King is not your brother and he does not have your best interests at heart.”

“Yara-“

“If you have even an ounce of sense in you, you will return as soon as he gives you leave.” Yara continued fiercely. “You will not stay on the mainland through autumn.”

The silence was heavy between them. They both knew that if Theon had ever been gifted with any amount of sense, they would not be in this situation to begin with.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone loves myth and history trivia, this is your lucky day! For everybody else… I’m sorry.
> 
> -Any references made to “the war” will be pretty vague, but inspirations include the Trojan War from the Iliad (wherein the gods took sides in the human conflict between the Trojans and the Greeks) and the war between the titans and the gods from Greek myth.
> 
> -The arrangement between Yara and Robb, where Theon and Arya get swapped every summer, is based on an actual Norse custom of trading chieftains to secure peace. In Norse myth, the gods Freyja and Freyr were members of the Vanir (nature gods) that were exchanged with Hoenir of the Aesir (Odin’s pantheon) as part of a stalemate treaty after the Aesir-Vanir war.
> 
> -The godly conflict between Yara and Euron is inspired by the Orcadian folklore of the Sea Mither and storm spirit Teran, whose conflict is said to dictate seasonal weather in Orkney. The Sea Mither holds Teran back through spring and summer but eventually weakens, with Teran wresting control from her through autumn and winter until she recovers.
> 
> -I have many of thoughts on salt marriage. irl, it is speculated that ~70% of the female population in ancient Iceland hailed from kidnapped Gaelic women. However it is very debatable if the women were all truly abducted, since a lot of British chroniclers of the period were vocally bitter about how sexy their women found the vikings to be, and absolutely would have lied about them leaving by choice.  
> > Meanwhile Pre-Christianity Ireland also had something called Brehon Law, which describes 10 forms of union. Each had decreasing status and desirability, and salt wives would’ve been considered a sixth degree union. Abducting and marrying another man’s wife was actually legal so long as you could keep her.  
> > I loosely based the salt wedding on old Norse customs, where the bride and groom would exchange heirloom swords along with their rings. I think this custom would be intact for rock marriage, but salt wives only get an arrow. For marriage bands, ancient Romans gave the women both gold and iron rings: gold for wearing in public, iron for wearing about the house. I split it, with rock wives getting gold rings and salt wives getting iron to easily display their status.  
> > I also mention salt grooms on occasion. This is because the Norse/vikings had no concept of sexual orientation. Gay sex was normal, but being on top was vital to a man’s honor; accusing him of bottoming was cause for a blood feud. Legal same-sex [salt] marriage is thus very plausible and imo should be a canon thing.
> 
> -I also just realized that I, completely by accident, additionally made Theon into an Eros/Cupid reference as an archer and god of fertility/pleasure who is sometimes called upon to oversee weddings. Whoops.
> 
> If you read all that you deserve a prize. Idk what to say except that I’m clearly not doing anything of substance with my sociology minor.


	2. Summer

In the early cycles after the war Robb had been more inclined to overlook Theon’s odd behavior. It had been such a traumatizing time for everyone, after all. Oaths were broken, hearts were shattered, lives were lost. Families torn asunder. Robb was a greatly changed man himself. Theon had played to that angle, encouraged it. He had still been in denial about how his circumstances were changing, and with how his very identity as a god was beginning to evolve (because surely it wasn’t really a _problem_ , surely the Huntsman couldn’t chase and capture him _every_ single winter). He didn’t want any more attention drawn to his shame than necessary.

With each passing cycle the stories and rumors grew more and more difficult to dispel. At last he was forced to admit to Robb that yes, the Huntsman did in fact take him prisoner every year… but that the tales of what transpired between master and captive were greatly overblown.

“He resents me for being a better hunter than he,” Theon would tell Robb whilst forcing an unconcerned shrug. “So he ensnares me as a cruel jape.”

Robb had frowned doubtfully. He had been so busy, still adapting to his parents’ deaths and to ruling the pantheon. The new king of the gods, the Young Wolf, here to lead his people into the new era. Yet at last he had found the time and energy to dig a little deeper into Theon’s story.

“And then? They say that he does you harm. That he commits all sorts of… violations unto your person.”

“He’s not a kind jailor I admit, and he undoubtedly lusts for me. But such can be said of most,” Theon had airily dismissed. “You know the humans love to exaggerate.”

For every tale there was at least a handful of alternate versions. He just needed to float a few lighter and softer ones. Just enough to ease Robb’s mind. Bran was a disquieting observer to Theon’s falsehoods, often watching him vacantly with eyes brimming with allsight, but the god of prophecy and divine secrets was secure in his silence. Theon could stick to his lies.

“And you return these affections?” Robb had asked in disbelief. “That is why you no longer bed women?”

“What? No! That- that has nothing to do with-” Theon shook himself. “I bed women aplenty. I just don’t do it where you can see. You’re king now, it’s unseemly.”

Robb hummed, a troubled crease to his brow. “The Huntsman lets you go then, every spring?”

“Of course. You know I have my family’s protection and they would never stand for someone dishonoring me so. Do I not return to you well and content each cycle?”

Robb had sighed, still not entirely convinced. “You’ve just acted so differently ever since. Even the humans speak of it. First I thought that it was the horrors of the war and you mourning the loss of your kin. Next I wondered if it were actually me and that after everything… you no longer felt comfortable in our friendship.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“But you are changed, Theon. You don’t partake in drink or women as you used to, when such acts once brought you no greater joy.”

Theon had swallowed dryly, eyes trailing to a clearing beyond the hills where a gaggle of maidens were doing laundry in the chilled river.

“I’m not as changed as you think. I’ll show you.”

Her name had been Kyra, and it was Theon’s fault when she died bloody and screaming in the snow.

* * *

It always felt like Theon was constantly being ferried between worlds, each with its own distinct set of comforts and traumas. Though he loved his sister, he usually burned through his affection for his homeland by the end of the season. Upon spring’s end he was itching for a change in scenery. It was just unfortunate that the place he was summoned to was no less fraught with heartbreak or troubled history.

Returning to the mainland was never an easy task, emotionally. The region was something of a guilty pleasure, a place he should not have come to care for as much as he did. If his family had their way he would never have taken up the bow, nor set foot on the shore to enter its woods.

There was a cool breeze on the air as Theon made port. Immediately after setting foot on the pier the scent of grass and pine washed over him. He turned his gaze to the impenetrable density of the treeline, beyond which the sprawling forest consumed most of the land. He couldn't help but feel like he was being watched.

The realm of the hibernal gods was layered both behind and above the realm of the mortals. It was a land of eternal cold: sloping mountains piled with snow and jutting cliffs carved from glaciers. The rolling green hills were threaded by torrential waterfalls, with crystalline rivers dotted by floating bergs of ice. The entire scene played hell on Theon’s sense of season.

The North King’s castle appeared to be built from ice as much as stone, standing tall and strong amidst the landscape. Though he never admitted to it, Theon had always found it to be a very imposing sight. Buildings alone should not have been capable of striking fear into its beholders, especially not those who were there as guests. Whatever approximation of ‘guest’ he still qualified for, at any rate.

Theon was escorted through the grand doors by a retinue of guards, some of whom Theon recognized but couldn’t really name. The soldiers of the hibernal army watched him with dark beastly eyes, cloaked in bear or wolf pelts. The throne room must have been specifically designed to make its guests feel small, wide enough to hold a hundred men with ceilings stretched so high as if to accommodate giants. An icy mist draped the air, curling and dispersing in the heat of the hall. Lesser gods lined the room in their silvery armor, solemn and grim as seemed to be the region’s custom.

The ironwood throne was as pitch and gleaming as obsidian, stronger than stone and with blue light intermittently pulsing throughout the grain. Seated over them all was the North King, eyes as blue as the summer sky and hair red as an autumn sunset. His wolfskin cloak was clasped regally about his shoulders, wreathing armor that gleamed like the moon itself.

Born from titans who had once personified the wild lands and rivers of the earth, he was the glorious god of the northern sky. The Great Wolf of the North, guiding star of the heavens, protector of the overworld and one true sovereign of the hibernal gods.

Robb had been only half of those things when Theon first knew him. In the king’s iron gaze there was none of that hesitant, innocent boy to be found.

“So summer has come again.”

How strong and deep Robb’s voice had become never quite failed to startle. Theon still didn't know how to act in New Robb’s presence, and he wondered if the same could be said for the North King in regards to New Theon.

Robb rose from his throne and descended its stairs, crossing the hall to place a hand on his shoulder. The gauntlet was so cold Theon could feel its sting through his clothes.

“I’m glad to see you returned and well,” Robb said. “You’re most welcome here, as always.”

“I thank you for your hospitality,” Theon intoned, eyes kept low. “As always.”

* * *

As a boy Theon would never have shrunk away from Robb’s attention. Quite the opposite - Robb was the brightest star in this land of endless ice and snow. He was the fixed point that everyone, Theon included, revolved around.

Theon had been young and alone and stranded, perpetually unwanted and unwelcome. He often found himself chasing Robb down (while pretending he wasn’t) and fighting for his full attention (while acting as if he couldn’t care less). He was the fun one, the smiling trickster tempting Robb with all the excitement and adventure his stuffy kinsmen frowned upon. It kept Robb coming back against his best interests, even fooled him into thinking that Theon was worldly and clever and someone to be admired.

That had been a long time ago.

So many cycles had passed since the war, since the world changed and titans fell. History had grown entangled with legend, as no mortals who bore witness still remained alive. It ultimately made being in the North King’s custody easier. Of course the gods of Robb’s pantheon remembered, but they were rarely at the castle in person. Most of the staff were younger, fresh-faced sprites and nature spirits who had never seen firsthand the man Theon had once been.

“He’s just so _troubled,_ ” a girl’s voice said dreamily. “There’s something endearing about a tragic man, do you not think?”

Theon paused outside his chambers, listening to the rustling of maids changing his linens.

“He was not always that way,” the other maid said. “I hear he once had a smile that could clear the skies and stop the rain. His charm warmed glaciers and raised the tides.”

“I’ve heard the tales.”

“Then you know to keep your eyes to yourself. Lest the Huntsman take note of your interest. He'd bleed you and the Prince both.”

“Those are just harsh winter stories,” the first maid said. “No one knows what truly happens once the Prince is taken to the Dread Lord’s keep.”

“Aye, but he is taken isn’t he? Whether the worst of it is true or not, the Huntsman still keeps him captive all winter.”

“Well, I’ve heard new rumors,” the maid whispered, forcing Theon to lean closer to the crack in the door. “That the two are true lovers. The Driftwood Prince now goes by his own will on the winter solstice, only shrouding the truth to spare his pride.”

“That’s absurd. I’ve heard no word of this.”

“It spreads from the humans of the Huntsman’s own cult! They bore witness to some arcane ritual last cycle, wherein the Prince laid with the Huntsman by choice.”

Theon’s breath caught. A block of ice had suddenly formed in the hollow of his stomach, chilling him from the inside out. He numbly stumbled away from the door.

It was staggering in hindsight how foolish he’d been. To fall prey to such a horrible moment of weakness, and in full view of an entire crowd of witnesses. There was no excusing it. Of course word would have gotten out somehow.

Bloody humans, always talking and telling stories.

Theon stalked the halls with darkness in his heart. It would be just like Ramsay to do this on purpose. The Huntsman was a petty and vengeful beast, certainly not above spreading this awful falsehood out of spite.

 _“You want to spare dear Robb’s feelings and pretend we play nice every winter?_ ** _Fine_** _. Take it and choke.”_ He could hear Ramsay’s voice with perfect accuracy in his mind. It sent shivers right to the base of his spine.

He knew better than anyone that trying to stop a rumor only ever made things worse. Like all things involving Ramsay, there was simply nothing Theon could do.

* * *

“Reading again?”

Robb found him on the castle grounds, far enough for privacy but still within range of the guard’s watch. He dropped to the ground on Theon’s side, nudging against him companionably. Robb had a softer air about him outside the throne room and away from the eyes of his pantheon, but his regal air never faltered. There was a wolfish glint to him, playful now but still capable of great savagery.

“You always said books were boorish and dull. That the true stories of the world had to be found in the flesh.”

Theon shrugged, looking down at the tome in his lap. “I suppose I never had the attention for them.”

“Mm. I don’t expect you come by much reading in your sister’s house.”

“No. My uncle has quite the collection but my people have no great love for the practice.” Theon said. “… About my sister-”

“We don’t need to talk about her,” Robb said curtly. “What’s done is done. All is settled now.”

Theon leaned amiably against him, gaze turned to the clear summer sky. While he didn’t want to ruin a good moment between them, he just couldn’t let the matter rest.

“Yara didn’t mean any offense,” he said. “She’s just… protective.”

“We’ve done more to raise and protect you than she ever did,” Robb said with a stern glare. “You barely knew her when we were boys. The two of you never corresponded. Even now you spend more of each cycle in our domain than hers! She hasn’t the right to try and shut me out.”

A tense moment passed. Then he took a breath, expression softening.

“I’m sorry. I know she’s your sister. And queen of the pelagic gods besides. I should not speak unkindly.”

There was a time when Theon would insist that he was also a pelagic god and that Yara was also his queen. However ever since Robb had become king of the hibernal pantheon, it was simply not a topic worth broaching.

_“Am_ **_I_ ** _not your king? Have you not said so in your own words? I don’t recall setting you free of them.”_

It was clear that Robb now blamed Theon’s kin in no small part for his defection in the war. He had blamed Theon too of course, as he should have, if that strong right hook to the jaw when they reunited had been any indication. Robb could not find it in him to stay angry after seeing the extent of the war’s impact on Theon’s character, but his rage and resentment had not dissipated. Instead it had merely shifted onto Theon’s immediate family, of which Yara was the war’s only survivor.

_"They should not have asked such things of you! Getting into your head, making you feel like you owed them when they’ve_ **_never_ ** _loved you like family!”_

Theon wondered how Robb would react if he knew Yara had said the exact same words about him.

“I just wish you two wouldn’t argue on my behalf,” Theon said finally. “You’re the ones I love most in the world.”

“I know.” Robb looked at him gravely. “You understand why I have to do this, don’t you? It’s not just because I want you here, though I do. This treaty is important. Exchanging culture and worship between our peoples makes us a united force if another war happens.”

“And it had to be me?”

Theon meant to say it like a joke, like he was blatantly fishing for compliments the way he used to. Robb’s face was dead serious.

“Yes.” Robb pulled him closer. “It had to be you.”

“Because I betrayed you.”

“Among other reasons.”

Theon waited for elaboration but none came.

“I used to look up to you, you know,” Robb said, almost offhand. “You were so confident and bold, even in dire times. Like the world was your playground and everything in it a new adventure.”

Theon also remembered Robb as a boy, bright-eyed and sincere and naive. Now look at them - The North King and the Driftwood Prince. One was the great sovereign of the hibernal gods, and the other was the Huntsman’s worn plaything.

“Theon, please. I don’t dislike the man you are now. Far from it.” Robb looked at him earnestly, his gaze so blue and sure. “I only wish you’d smile like you used to.”

Theon gripped his knees tight enough to bruise. If Robb never learned how artificial most of his smiles back then had been, he would call it a rare stroke of luck.

_ ”Fake. Everything about you is fake, it’s disgusting. I’m about to teach you a little something about **honesty**. They say the truth hurts and I’m **so** eager to know for sure-” _

The Huntsman had never liked it when Theon smiled for other people.

“I’m sorry.”

“You apologize so often now.” Robb tugged the book away and set it aside so he could take Theon’s hand in his. “I don’t want you to feel guilty and scared when you speak to me.”

“What do you want?”

Robb squeezed. “For you to be here. With me, and happy to be so.”

“I am happy,” Theon said as convincingly as he could. “I’m always happy to be with you.”

Robb’s expression was unreadable. In times like this he so strongly resembled Grey Wind - a wild beast both noble and feral. A force of nature, barely bound into physical form. Finally he unclasped his fur cloak and draped it about Theon’s shoulders, deftly fastening it before sitting back with a satisfied air.

“Thank you but… I’m really not cold.”

“You still smell of the sea,” the North King said, paging lazily through the stolen book. “I don’t care for it.”

* * *

Another problem, and perhaps the only problem Theon felt somewhat equipped to acknowledge, was Jon.

They had never been close as children despite their mutual love for Robb and the great amount of familiarity they’d been forced to share with each other. Not brothers, not friends. Rivals, though neither of them wanted to acknowledge their relationship as such. Both wanted to think of themselves as above competing with the other but it was undeniably what they had always done.

Jon had been the unwilling dragalong to their misadventures, the one who was often forced to find the way out of whatever mess Theon had cajoled Robb into. Robb had been their middle ground: he wanted to be noble and honest like Jon, but was always drawn to the fun and excitement Theon offered. The humans would usually turn it into a moral about living in moderation or resisting temptation to spare yourself trouble. Something like that.

The day that Theon and Jon came to terms involved no apologies, no confessions or sense of mutual understanding. It should have, but it didn’t. It really had nothing to do with the two of them at all.

_“You have to give him back.”_

Ramsay’s hand had stilled in its petting of Theon’s hair. He liked to play with the curls, occasionally tugging harshly at the scalp when he felt his pet’s attention drift.

“Oh? Is that right?” He asked lightly, laughter in his tone. “Fine, I’ll play. Why should I?”

Jon was as stony and grim as ever. Theon had mocked him for his dour ways in the past, but the image of him standing so resolute in the Huntsman’s hall was nothing short of striking. The god of darkness and keeper of the wall between life and death. Draped in his long, black feathered cloak, his eyes gleamed like the night itself.

Meanwhile Theon felt smaller and more exposed than ever as he tried to avoid Jon’s eyes. He was stripped almost bare, skin mottled with cuts and bruises. His knees were raw and numb from where he kneeled, collared and chained to the Huntsman’s monstrous seat of steel and bone.

“The pelagic pantheon are our enemies,” Ramsay said. “They made their choices. What we do now is the consequence.”

“The King of the Deep is dead. His daughter is willing to broker peace but we must return her brother.”

Theon’s stomach did an odd turn. His father, vicious titan of the darkest and most ancient waters… was gone?

“Could be a ruse.”

“We can’t take the risk when the Queen Reaper is threatening to wash out the mainland with fifty-story waves,” Jon retorted.

“She’s bluffing. She’s too weak from beating out her uncles’ claims. The pelagios and their humans have long raided our shores, stealing men and women alike as their bedwarmers,” Ramsay said, running a finger down Theon’s cheek. “Why shouldn’t we teach them a lesson and do the same?”

He slipped his thumb past Theon’s lips, obscenely forcing his mouth open and tongue out.

“Lord Huntsman,” Jon said firmly, holding white-knuckled to his composure. “This is no idle matter. The lands are already in ruins, more titans are dead than not, the restless dead continue to march from the Abyss, and even those who survive may starve because the woods are near barren of prey. If we can avert further bloodshed by returning the Driftwood Prince, then that is what must be done.”

“We here take orders from the North King only,” Ramsay said, pressing more fingers in and eliciting a gag. “And last I heard he’s in no state to give any. Or are we all to answer to a half-breed changeling now?”

Jon scowled but refused to rise to the bait. He’d heard worse, in no small portion from Theon himself.

“Are you refusing to release him into my custody, Huntsman? Perhaps I should have petitioned your father first.”

The laughter dimmed from Ramsay’s eyes. He pulled his fingers free from Theon’s mouth and made a show of contemplating the matter.

“I will… consider what you’ve said, Commander, and return to you with an answer.”

“That isn’t good enough-“

“Until I receive a formal declaration that you have been coronated interim king, I’m afraid it’ll have to be,” Ramsay said in false politeness. He flicked his finger towards the exit. “On your way now.”

Jon didn’t budge. “I want to speak with Theon. In private.”

Ramsay looked bored. “And say what? I promise you, he’s no great conversationalist. Unless you find ‘please no’ and ‘lord stop’ especially compelling.”

Jon’s expression soured. After a moment he set his shoulders, seeming to realize that he’d make no headway that day.

“This isn’t over. Whether the Queen Reaper is bluffing or not, we have other and greater things to worry about now. Your actions affect us all.” Jon then made direct eye contact with Theon. “When you do choose to act, I’ll be waiting.”

The message did not go unheard.

Two nights later Theon was fleeing through the snow, the din of approaching hellhounds echoing beyond the trees. They would have run him down within the next mile if not for the black-cloaked rider waiting for him beyond the river.

They rode past the threshold of the dread realm, Jon’s steed carrying them both with ease.

“Don’t tell Robb,” Theon pleaded, his voice half-lost to the wind.

He never heard a response.

* * *

To say Theon and Jon’s relationship had improved would technically be true. That is to say, the pair of them had gone from antagonizing one another to being painfully neutral. They rarely even made eye contact if they could help it.

Jon’s status had greatly improved since the war, during which he took the helm as Winter’s Commander. It had fallen on the North King to maintain the walls between worlds and keep the overworld secure after his father's death - however even Robb in all his strength was no titan. His power could only fuel the barriers for three-quarters of the cycle before exhausting him into deathlike slumber at autumn’s end. From there it fell upon Jon and his men to keep the line and physically battle back the monstrosities or restless dead that tried to claw their way out of the Abyss.

Meanwhile Theon had gone from hostage to traitor to hostage again, with a lot of colorful and dubious activity in between. His worship might have increased but his reputation amongst the gods could not be called improved. Theon could not find it in him to resent Jon so much as feel sorry for his own self. The boy he’d mocked and bullied was now a hero, trusted and respected. Theon was the dour one now, little more than a joke to be passed from keeper to keeper with every season.

Well. Perhaps it was no more or less than either of them deserved.

“Theon.”

He smothered the urge to flinch in surprise. He was used to eating most of his meals in silence. Men were not inclined to strike conversation with him, nor he with them. Robb kept him relatively close, seated in a place fitting for honored guests, but was usually kept engaged by his counsel. Theon cast a wary eye in Robb’s direction and sure enough the North King’s attention was being monopolized by another god of his court.

“What?”

Jon continued to cut into his food, voice low. “I’m not sure if you’re aware of all the whispers coming from the east.”

Theon sullenly eyed the untouched wine before him and said nothing.

“I have never pressed you in any manner regarding your… management of the situation,” Jon said. “Your affairs are yours alone. However you and I both know that the Huntsman is no lover to you.”

“It is a rumor, no better nor worse than any of the others.”

“I could argue that,” Jon said. “What will you tell Robb?”

“I will tell him what I have told you.”

“You will continue to lie to him then. You’ll tell him that the Hunstman does no more than lock you in a cage all winter before setting you free in spring because what? He fears your sister?”

“All men should.”

Jon huffed, an expression of frustration that reminded Theon viscerally of their adolescent days.

“Robb knows you are withholding truths from him. He has allowed it as an act of goodwill towards you, and as trade for you being cooperative. He also stays his hand because he cannot raise issue with the Dread Lord without your full and explicit official statement on the matter.”

Theon barely reigned in a shudder. He had no intention of sitting before the North King, his counsel and his scribe, and giving any such thing.

“You know as well as I that when this tale reaches his ears, he may find it a preferable option to the horror stories we both know to be fact.”

“So?”

Jon sighed. “I love Robb as you do. I know he wants your happiness. He also wants you to leave your sister’s court and bind yourself to the hibernal pantheon. He hates that your loyalties are divided. He still considers it to blame for your betrayal.”

“What are you saying?”

“I am saying,” Jon said, staring into the table. “That now is an ideal time to tell Robb once and for all that you are not safe nor happy in the mainland. Drop the act. Before you finally find yourself boxed into a place you cannot escape.”

* * *

The first time Theon saw the northern lights he’d been struck speechless.

He couldn’t even pretend to find them distasteful or unimpressive, as he had been with most things since his arrival. He had stood awestruck on the flats, watching the ribbons of unearthly hue ripple and dance across the sky, reflected on the glossy expanse of ice beneath his feet. Wolves large as horses raced across the hills kicking stars into the sky. Robb, so small and young, had grinned widely at him, thrilled to have breached Theon’s prickly hide at last.

“I thought I’d find you out here.”

The words brought Theon sharply back to the present. Robb in all his fully grown and regal glory was treading across the ice, Grey Wind padding loyally at his side. Theon swallowed the lump in his throat.

“A clear night at last,” he said. “How could I stay inside?”

Robb smiled and took his hand as easily as when they’d been children. Shades of pink and green that Theon had never and could never have seen elsewhere swirled overhead like dye in oil. The light crackled as the veil between worlds charged with the North King's power. For several long minutes that was the only sound in the air.

“I know things between us will never be as they were,” Robb said at last, causing a vice to clamp upon Theon’s heart. “But I hope that whether I come to you as a brother or as your sovereign, you feel capable of trusting me with the truth.”

“Robb…”

“You once told me that you did not reciprocate the Huntsman’s interest,” he shouldered on, spectral lights dancing in his eyes. “I took you at your word, as I always have.”

 _Whether you deserved it or not_ went unsaid. Robb looked down at their intertwined hands, his thumb tracing the line of one of Theon’s fingers.

“I hear such awful things about what happens to you in winter,” he said. “But you come back to me healthy and never speak of it, except to tell me that it isn’t what the people say.”

Theon smiled weakly and squeezed Robb’s hand in return. “I already told you what there is to be said. Besides, what happens to me outside of your custody is not your responsibility.”

Yara had damn near slapped him when Theon had tried to use that defense with her.

_“Do you think the North King a fool? He could set you on a ship back to me himself, but instead he lets you run rampant and unattended all autumn._ _Why? Because you’re useful. You make sure his humans have enough to eat through winter and for that he deems it worth the risk. Then when you’re captured you keep that hellbeast occupied, and so long as_ **_I_ ** _am here to pick up the pieces and make you whole again, he never need face any of it!”_

Even if that were true, how could Theon begrudge him? It was a fact that no matter how badly he suffered in winter, his body was always healed afterwards. Was that not preferable to people dying painful, unnecessary deaths? Did Theon not owe that much to the people of this realm?

“Theon,” Robb tugged his hand. “You know that you’re dear to me. You know that I’d never want you to come to harm. Tell me you do.”

“I do. I’ve always known,” Theon said. “It’s alright, Robb. You’re king now. You can’t afford to make me your first priority. I understand.”

“Theon... listen. I have to ask you this question, and in addition ask that you answer me directly and honestly.” Robb levelly held his gaze, framed in light and never looking more like a king. “Is the Lord Huntsman your lover?”

Theon wanted to fall through the ice and out of this life. He wanted to rise into the sky and burn within the barrier between their world and the next. Jon’s advice rung in his ears on repeat: Drop the act.

What if he did? What if Robb learned the truth; that Theon was brutalized and violated in every known way each cycle? What if Robb decided to take up arms against one of the few titans to survive the war? What if he waged battle with the Dread Lord and the Huntsman and wound up tearing his own realm into fractions?

And worse yet - what if Robb _didn’t_?

Theon did not want to find out how much his wellbeing truly mattered. He didn’t need to finally see how heavily his flesh weighed when judged by North King’s scales. He did not want to learn if Yara was right: that Robb would pick his pantheon’s stability and his people’s survival through winter over Theon’s suffering.

And he would never have to find out, so long as he never made Robb choose.

“Yes.”

It was not technically a lie. Theon had in fact laid with the Huntsman several times by choice last winter.

Robb closed his eyes and took a deep, shuddering breath. “I don’t know if I’m relieved or livid.”

“It’s a… recent development,” Theon said wanly. “From last cycle.”

“Oh? So in all the cycles previous, your relationship has been chaste?”

“N…no.” Theon winced. “But I wouldn’t have called him my lover then, exactly.”

“I wish you had told me regardless. I thought he was ravaging you!”

“Well-“

“I do not need to hear it!” Robb waved him off, looking genuinely uncomfortable. “I simply cannot imagine _why_. He is hardly your usual taste.”

“His courtship was very persistent.”

“That much I have already heard. You still could have said so, instead of letting me think the worst.”

“I told you those tales were only rumors.”

“And I smelled your lie because you were lying to me!” Robb snapped. “Why? Did you think I would think less of you? My love is not so fragile as your family’s! I thought I had already proven as much!”

“This is not about my family.”

“No? So it is not about your sister and how little she would approve? I know of how she threatened to flood the mainland when you did not return to her.” His grip on Theon’s hand tightened. “You’ve clearly let her draw her own conclusions as well. Judging by her letters, she seems to think I bind you to a forest altar and give the Huntsman a blade myself!”

“Robb, please.” Theon was struggling to think of how he could regain some measure of control over the situation. “My sister loves me. She worries for me when we are too long apart, as you would for your own siblings. Whatever else is true, I still have obligations to my homeland to the same extent as what I have here.”

“Perhaps. But Arya also spends a season each cycle with the Queen Reaper. Though she greatly enjoys it, her loyalty is always where it belongs. To be your sister and to be your queen are two different things,” Robb said gravely. “It is not fair that I should come in second.”

Theon didn’t know what to say to that. The North King pulled him in without resistance, firmly resting their foreheads against each other.

“I only want the fealty you promised me,” Robb murmured. “Is it not what I’m owed? Have I not earned it? I’m giving you a second chance. I thought you’d be eager to take it.”

They stood like that for a while. Eventually Grey Wind shuffled beside them, bumping up against where they were huddled together. A beast as defensive and territorial as his master.

“Tell me you will consider what I’ve said,” Robb said. "Please."

"... Of course." Theon could never say no to him. Not directly, anyway.

“If your heart is in the mainland, then you should stay here with it.”

Theon breathed as evenly as he could when feeling like his chest was about to implode.

He was so fucked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More notes! I didn't know there was a character limit for these things but hoo boy I found it today
> 
> \- My description of the North King’s realm is heavily inspired by both irl Greenland as well as Jotunheim, the realm of the frost giants from Norse myth. Despite the name the jotunn were not literally giants and not described as being all that unusual in appearance. They were generally rivals to Odin’s pantheon, but several jotunn wound up marrying Norse gods.
> 
> -Again, the tension between the ‘pelagic’ (marine) and ‘hibernal’ (wintry) pantheons is meant to mirror the conflict between the Vanir and Aesir, with a lil of the Seelie vs Unseelie Court. On that note the White Walkers here are a combination of the elves and the draugr (restless dead) of Norse myth.
> 
> -Robb’s army is inspired by Berserkers, great warriors that wore bear, boar or wolf skins. They channeled the animals’ spirits and were nigh unstoppable on the battlefield due to superhuman strength and resistance to pain.
> 
> -Yara’s wrath and Jon’s attempt to sway Ramsay into releasing Theon is inspired again by Hades’ abduction of Persephone. Persephone’s mother Demeter refused to allow anything to grow in protest of her daughter’s abduction, and Hermes was eventually sent to retrieve her. On that note there are MANY versions of this tale, including some that say Persephone ate the seeds on purpose. There are witnesses for her abduction, but it's not clear if she was literally raped after capture. The mystery around what 'really' happened to Theon is a nod to that.
> 
> -In Greek myth, titans were the primordial beings that preceded/sired the gods. The gods represented more abstract forces (war, love, wisdom etc) but the titans often personified cosmic forces (time, night, aether etc). For instance, Tartarus is known to be the hellish section of the underworld - however Tartarus was also a titan, the son of Chaos; he was both a person and a place. Many titans died in war, but a few survived by either being neutral or siding with the gods. In this au, Roose aka the Dread Lord is a titan and basically this au’s version of Tartarus.
> 
> -For North King Robb, I combined a few sources of inspiration:  
> > Skadi: A jotunn and goddess of winter who is very associated with wolves. She was once married to Njord, the Norse god of the sea. However the marriage didn’t last because Skadi’s heart was in the frosty mountains and Njord’s was in the ocean and eventually they separated. I purposefully made his feelings for Theon ambiguous, but the parallel is still too good.  
> > Laignech Faelad: A legendary Irish hero who sired the Kings of Ossory. He was a werewolf and chieftain to a warrior-tribe of wargs.  
> > The Aurora Borealis: The term is literally sunrise + wind in Greek. In Finland the aurora borealis is called “foxfire” and said to be caused by foxes running across the tundra, kicking up ice that sparks to create light. It was also believed that the aurora shined with light from the otherworld.  
> > Stars: It’s common for the ‘king of the gods’ to be a sky god, which I find esp fitting for Robb. Instead of weather however, he’s associated with various forms of light. The specific stars in mind are Polaris, aka the North Star, which many use as a navigational guide. Many referred to it as being a spoke that the world revolved upon and/or a peg that holds the sky together. There’s also of course Sirius, the brightest star in the sky that is associated with canines across cultures (including dogs, coyotes and wolves).  
> > Winter Solstice: Long before Christianity, pagan faiths were making use of the classic “god dies and is reborn” story. This was often in relation to the winter solstice, with the light (usually rep’d by a god of light) being reborn after the darkest time of the year. Thus Robb’s winter sleep is when he “dies”, taking his light with him.
> 
> -There were also a few inspirations for Winter Commander Jon’s divine identity (though I didn’t go into it):  
> > General Winter: The personification of Russian winter, often attributed to the extreme difficulties armies face when invading Russia.  
> > Badb Catha: A war goddess from Irish myth who often took the form of a crow. Was considered a harbinger of bloodshed and doom.  
> > Hounds of Annwn: White, spectral hounds that belonged to Arawn, king of the otherworld, and escorted spirits to heaven in Welsh mythology.  
> > Psychopomp: A figure that escorts spirits to the afterlife. Exists across cultures in various forms.  
> > Erebus: Personification of the darkness between life and afterlife.  
> > Changelings: Scot-Irish lore tells of fae stealing human babies and swapping them with one of their own kind. Jon’s not actually an example, he's just referred to as such because it’s part of his fake paternity story here.


	3. Autumn

It was with the coming of autumn that Theon began to get truly nervous.

Summer never seemed to last long enough. It felt like he had only just gotten comfortable under the blue skies and bright stars, where the fruit was ripe and the breeze was sweet. Then the leaves began to turn and the sky softened behind sheer clouds, the harvests turned golden and the nights grew cold.

Robb’s light had begun to fade and the North King grew ever more tired.

“Your sister is sending Arya home,” he said, avoiding Theon’s gaze. “She has bid me to do the same for you.”

“I know.”

“I will not stop you. Any ship in the port will take you back, should you ask for it.”

As if he would. “It won’t do any harm to stay a while longer.”

Robb smiled, though his eyes were sad. “You do a great service to the people, Theon. Anyone who doesn’t see that is hateful as well as foolish.”

It was embarrassing how hard the praise struck Theon's heart. How pathetic, to still be so desperate for validation. To hunger so deeply for any hint that he was appreciated and doing well.

“I’m sure you’re also eager to see your lover,” Robb said stiffly, discomfort clear in his stance.

The warmth in Theon’s chest was promptly extinguished. Right.

For a moment he dared imagine the scenario he was now peddling as fact. What a different world it would be wherein Ramsay’s greatest crime was merely being a serial abductor, spiriting Theon away each winter for nothing more than relentless courtship. In that world Ramsay would keep Theon in a tower instead of a dungeon, would bring him gifts and sweet words and kiss his hands… instead of knives and whips, taking his flesh and licking his tears.

Theon would have been resistant and proud at first, spurning the other man with every visit paid to his gilded cage. How dare a mere demigod presume to steal him away like a common farmer’s daughter? Didn’t the Huntsman know that he would never bend for another man, let alone his inferior? Yet Theon was so sensitive to affection, so unused to being the center of anyone’s rapt attentions, and every winter holiday they spent together would gradually melt away his frosty resolve.

It was almost a nice story, framed like that.

Of course it was still only one version of the tale. Many were clinging white-knuckled to the ‘traditional’ telling, the grim story of the Driftwood Prince’s seasonal torment and abuse. The news that Theon had finally succumbed and bedded the Huntsman of his own will was only evidence that he had, at long last, been truly broken.

“Well… he’s not exactly pleased with me at present,” Theon said awkwardly. “You might have guessed.”

“His cult’s attacks on your people.” Robb nodded sagely. “I did wonder.”

“He doesn’t understand that I cannot stay with him all cycle." It was rather disturbing how easily the truth aligned with the lies. "I have too many responsibilities to fulfill.”

“Especially since it took so many cycles of courtship to finally win you, I suppose I can understand the frustration,” Robb said. “But his passions for you are legendary. Surely the two of you will reconcile.”

“I hope so.”

“Though it is all still beyond my understanding, I only want your happiness,” Robb said solemnly. “And if this is what finally convinces you to become a hibernal god, I will not complain. Once that is sealed, you wouldn’t… you wouldn’t be-”

“I know.” As a hibernal deity, Theon would no longer be a hostage. Robb would be his king and the mainland would be his home.

The North King officially gave the Driftwood Prince leave that morning. It went without saying that Theon did not go down to the port. Instead he made for the opposite direction, plunging through the tree line and into woods.

Immediately the air changed. The scent of pine and decomposing leaves mingled in the autumn musk. The chatter of various creatures overlaid the ringing of birdsong.

When all was said and done the Prince always slunk back to the forest. It was his last retreat. He had no master amongst the trees and no appearances to maintain to the beasts. Autumn was his oasis, his tired rock to rest upon amidst turbulent seas. It was a lonely time too, of course. For however difficult Theon found it to be in the company of others, he had also never coped very well in solitude.

He came to a familiar clearing situated on the shore of a placid lake. He placed to fingers to his lips and gave a low whistle. In response the lake surface began to tremble and shake, ripples splashing in waves upon the shore. From its depths rose the familiar shape of Theon’s cabin, water running in torrents down its weathered exterior. It scuttled on crablike legs to the lakefront, where the front porch aligned neatly with the grassy shore.

Theon made his way inside, slinging his pack from his shoulder and to the floor.

“I’m home.”

The cabin, though dry and comfortable enough on the inside, did not answer. It was a one-room lodge, but a fairly lavish one. The hearth was warm, the bed and lounger piled high with cushions and furs, and the loft well-stocked with various kit for traversing the wilds. Theon wasted no time in getting himself settled and prepared for the new season. He aired out the dust, made a fire, unpacked his belongings and was in bed shortly after sunset.

Come morning there was a severed wolf head bleeding a puddle across his front stoop, its eyes wide open and tongue lolling from its jaws.

_Welcome back._

* * *

The First Harvest of the season was always a bright occasion, as it was still early enough that the warmth and charm of summer had not fully drained away. The air was filled with the joyous shouts of children and the smell of fresh baked bread while the people enjoyed the bounty of a recent reaping.

Most relevant to Theon was the festival’s games, as early autumn was a time of tourneys and various sport. He was not the only god in attendance, with the patron deities of jousters and wrestlers and so on also observing the proceedings. They did not pay him much mind, which was just as well. Theon stood on the sidelines and soaked in the offerings of hopeful archers. It was nice to still be acknowledged for his skills rather than his pain. It reminded him of older, happier times.

He gave his blessings liberally: enhanced marksmanship to one, sexual magnetism to another. For the tourney’s winner he gave a nudge to the maiden that the boy had been eyeing. With the tournament winnings as a bride price, there was likely to be a wedding by season’s end.

Sometimes stories had happy endings. Sometimes.

Even at the height of revelry the people were already preparing for winter, readying their stores and rationing their resources. It wouldn’t be long before the light began to fade and the nights grew ever longer. Theon had attended to the prey of the forest in due diligence; he allowed enough captures for the sorely needed furs to stock the market, but still safeguarded the population for later winter hunts.

Every little bit helped. Anything could make the difference between a wintry death or surviving to see the spring.

As the sun finally began to slip beneath the horizon Theon made his retreat. The way back to his cabin was a long one and he was not comfortable making the journey in the dark. Although the Huntsman never approached him in autumn, he always seemed to be watching. It alone was enough to put any man on edge and send him hurrying home.

Theon made his way through the brush, cloak pulled close against the chill. As he walked along a riverbank the faint sound of laughter and song gave him pause. Unearthly voices were carried by the wind, beckoning him to a place beyond the river’s bend. He followed, guided by ill-advised curiosity, and came to a small pond fed by a branching stream. Fairy fires hovered in the air, casting an eerie glow through the thicket.

He stopped right in his tracks. “Oh.”

Several sets of glowing eyes met his.

“Oh my lord,” a naiad turned her wide luminescent gaze upon him. “You are most welcome here.”

There were several of them in the pool, male and female. Theon had glimpsed them on occasion in the fields, hydrating the crops. As spirits of fertility they could be cajoled into assisting the harvest, but they were also dangerous in their sensuality, prone to luring unsuspecting youths to death by drowning or exertion.

“Uh,” he swallowed, failing miserably to look anywhere but at the nudity on display before him. “I was just. Passing through. Home. I was, I was going home.”

Even as an untried boy he had never sounded like such an awkward virgin. However the genuine panic beginning to build in his chest was overriding all else. Theon was historically not good at resisting temptation, but nor was he ever ready to contend with the consequences.

“You’ve only just arrived. You should stay,” another nymph said, casually running her hands down her wet body as it glistened beneath the moon.

“Kind of you.” Theon took a step back and winced at the loud snap of a branch beneath his boot. “But I really ought to-“

“Just for a little while.” One of the males took him by the hand and drew him closer to the water’s edge. “We’d love to hear you tell us of the sea.”

“The sea?” Theon echoed uncomprehendingly.

“Mmhm.” Hands were working his shirt open, pulling his cloak from his shoulders. “You must have so many great tales to tell.”

“Well, I… I suppose…”

Theon’s mind was not functioning properly. It had been so long since he’d touched a woman, his gaze now drawn unerringly to the swell of their breasts and the peaks of their nipples. Their bodies were full and soft and dripping, pressing against him. The men were beautiful also, tall and shimmering under the starlight. Theon had only ever bent for a man, and deep down he always wondered what it might be like to play the _other_ role.

When had they gotten him in the water? His trousers were soaked and he was bare from the waist up. So many hands were groping at his body that he couldn’t keep track. The press of lips against his neck made him jump.

“I can’t! I shouldn’t. Please-“

“Ssh. We can please you, my lord.” A hand trailed southward down his abdomen.

Theon groaned, caught between leaning in and pulling away. “Nn- wait, just wait-“

“Tell us what you like. Do our forms not satisfy you?” Another asked. “It is no matter. Show us your desire and we can change.”

The nymph’s eyes changed from deep minty green to a pale, icy blue, and it was like a shock of lightning had struck Theon on the spot.

“No!” He wrenched himself free, floundering like a landed fish to claw his way up and out of the pool.

He didn’t risk looking back before breaking through the brush and running as quickly from the scene as his feet would carry him. The journey home was a blur; Theon couldn’t even remember navigating his way through the woods. All he knew was that one moment he was flying through the trees and the next he was barricading himself within his cabin.

For several long moments he leaned heavily against the door, cold and shirtless. His trousers and boots were waterlogged and caked in dirt. His heart was an erratic drum as his lungs struggled beneath his ribs.

He knew better than to hope Ramsay had not seen. The Huntsman always saw, he was always watching.

_He’s going to take my cock again._

Theon nearly broke down crying at the thought. He couldn’t go through that a second time. He hadn’t even done anything! Not that Ramsay would care. It wasn’t fair. Nothing about it was, but especially not when Ramsay was certainly not ‘faithful’ himself. The Huntsman had probably been fucking Myranda all cycle, along with whoever else the bastard got his hands on.

Theon slid down to the floor, face in his hands. Autumn had only just begun and the coming forecast had never looked more bleak.

* * *

Theon was afraid to leave his cabin the next morning. Hell, he was afraid to even open his eyes when he woke. It wouldn’t be the first time Ramsay had left some grisly present at his bedside, not only as a cruel shock but also to show off just how close he could get.

Yet there was nothing.

Theon scanned his room anxiously for a sign of anything out of place. Then he carefully nosed out the front door to check the porch. Was it possible that Ramsay hadn’t seen? Theon didn’t know what exactly the Huntsman’s own observance of the First Harvest involved... perhaps he’d been busy that night attending to his own followers.

Theon still did not let himself relax. He simply did not get that lucky, not ever.

The day whiled on without incident but Theon found himself jumping at every sound beyond the trees. He agonized over objects he had probably moved himself but couldn’t precisely remember doing so. Maybe this was a punishment all its own, leaving him in a state of constant paranoia and fear.

As night fell he sat fretfully at his hearth, unable to cease his twitching. Finally he couldn’t take it anymore - he had to do something, at least gain some kind of confirmation that he wasn’t going to get ambushed as soon as his guard was down. He left his cabin as a bundle of live nerves, treading as gently as he could through the dark forest. He cautiously retraced his steps back to the river before cycling about, climbing to the peak of an overhang that should peer down to the pond clearing. He didn’t want to make the same mistake twice and be seen. He just needed to see the state of things for himself. Maybe get his shirt back, if opportunity arose.

Theon crept as carefully as he could across the dried leaves that blanketed the earth. Even as he ducked under trees and crawled through the bush he considered turning around and returning home. The sounds coming from below soon told him what he’d find before he even reached the edge of the overlook.

There was a fire burning in the clearing, casting the scene below in painful clarity.

Long shadows danced against the crackling flames as ghouls rutted into weakly struggling nymphs. Some of the sprites were bound to trees by the fire, weeping in pain as the heat dried and burned their delicate flesh.

Most striking of all was the Huntsman himself, leaning against a fallen tree and toying with a long, curved blade. A massive hellhound was lazing at his feet, dozing despite the horrors taking place around them. Theon faltered at the sight of his shirt and cloak in Ramsay’s lap - the very ones he had been relieved of and left behind the night prior. Ramsay appeared content to run his gloved fingers absently over the fabric, breathing deeply as if to inhale the scent.

Theon had never actually seen him in autumn. Ramsay always stalked him from the shadows unseen. It was part of the game: working himself up into a blood frenzy from a distance as he dogged Theon’s footsteps, the only evidence of his presence being the cruel tokens he would leave behind.

With his own cloak slung across the felled trunk at his side, the strong cut of the Huntsman’s form was on full display. Dressed in shades of red and black, even from a distance the sight of him was sinister.

“You don’t sound like you’re having fun,” he said, playfully offhand in the way that meant he was absolutely seething. “I’m confused! You seemed so eager for cock last night. I know my men aren’t as… impressive as my beloved, but surely they make up for it in enthusiasm.”

Ramsay languidly moved to his feet, circling the bound nymphs with knife in hand.

“Nothing to say? Just as well. We all know what happened.” He leaned in close to his nearest captive, knife teasing at his sternum. “You tried to take him from me. Everybody always does. You, the pelagios, the fucking _North King_ -”

The nymph howled as the knife pierced his skin, water bleeding freely from the wound.

“I understand, really. Once he gives you those big, weepy eyes it’s hard to resist. Even so… I just. Can’t. Stand,” Ramsay’s breath became more labored as the nymph’s screams escalated. “People touching _my things_.”

With a fluid motion Ramsay withdrew his blade and slashed at the bindings. The bleeding creature toppled to the grass, shuddering terribly.

“Let’s play a game. You think you’re worth betraying me for? I’d _love_ to see it.” Ramsay circled his prey venomously, his eyes bright and so, so cold. “If you can give me what _I_ desire, I’ll let you go free.”

A few seconds passed in uncomprehending horror. Finally the sprite seemed to somewhat collect himself. His form shimmered like ripples across a pond, his features and coloration changing under Ramsay’s gaze.

Theon felt something in him sink as he watched the fertility spirit shift into his own likeness, trembling and bloody at the Huntsman’s feet.

“Hm.” Ramsay nudged the nymph’s thighs apart with his boot, appraising him. “Not bad. Come on then. Seduce me.”

The sprite wearing Theon’s face crawled forward, hands tentatively running up the Huntsman’s thighs.

“Let me please you, my lord. I can make it up to you-“

“No, he doesn’t… he doesn’t say it like that.” Ramsay sighed, frustrated. “Try again.”

Theon’s mirror image chewed his lip, groveling and submissive as his hands flexed on Ramsay’s breeches. The sight sent strange shivers down Theon’s spine. That wasn’t really what he looked like, was it? In winter, when he was begging and pleading for mercy?

“I want you,” his double said, lust and desperation heady in his voice. “Only you.”

“Better,” Ramsay said roughly, eyes darkening.

“There could never be another,” The false Theon said, mouthing at the front of Ramsay’s trousers. “I’m yours.”

“That’s right.” Ramsay knotted his fingers in the imposter’s hair. “And no one is ever going to forget it again.”

And with a single brutal motion, he slit the sprite’s throat.

“That was rather good,” he said, watching dispassionately as Theon’s likeness choked and bled out before him. “But I’m afraid you couldn’t give me what I desire after all. You wouldn’t have been able to give it to _him_ , either.”

In death the nymph unceremoniously dissolved into a puddle of water, soaking into the earth and leaving only a dark stain behind.

“Bit of a shame, that.” Ramsay looked at his knife with some disappointment, the blade dripping with only water. “I would have liked to bring a souvenir back for my sweetheart. Ah well. I’m sure I’ll come up with something. I know how much he treasures my little love notes.”

The ghouls had mostly finished in their raping of the other nymphs, though a few were still trading partners between each other.

“Hurry it up, boys. We have just enough time for another game,” Ramsay said as he beckoned his hound to its feet. An evil grin spread across his face as he scratched the beast behind one of its massive ears. “It’s called, ‘which whore can run the fastest?’ Feel free to place your bets.”

* * *

Theon sprinted back home wishing he’d never left the cabin at all. He lowered the latch over the door as if it ever did him any good, and all but burrowed beneath his covers like a scared child. The visceral images of the night were trapped in his brain, swarming his mind’s eye. He could still see the bulge of Ramsay’s erection pressing against his trousers as he watched Theon’s double writhe and choke on blood. He could still hear the groans of Ramsay’s men mixed with the screams and tears of their victims.

He could too easily imagine the hunt that now tore through the forest. Maybe some of the nymphs would survive, if they were able to find and melt into another body of water… but some would be injured already, and they simply would not get far.

Theon buried his face into his pillow. It was his fault. Everyone that he came into contact with was at risk and he _knew_ that. It would be better for everyone if he exiled himself to some faraway place and only ever descended to do his duty and leave again. No encounters, certainly no attachments. It wasn’t responsible to live any other way.

It didn't matter that a pit of loneliness already ached empty and yearning within his chest. Theon didn’t know how he could survive being any more cut off from the world than he already was. He only knew that no one else would survive the alternative.

He could still run. He could abandon the mainland to its cruel winter, to starvation and overhunting and Ramsay’s jilted wrath. Theon had tried to be clever with the timing in the past, waiting as long as possible to flee so as to minimize the damage of his absence. But he had waited too long, and by the time he arrived at the islands his sister and uncle were already at each other’s throats.

Euron had caught him long before he even got to see Yara.

_ “Oh, little Theon. You should really know better than to get involved in adult affairs.” _

He’d been bound and deposited right into Ramsay’s lap, who seemed almost more annoyed at being cheated out of a hunt than the escape attempt itself. That had been a particularly hard season. Not that any of them were ever easy.

The Huntsman was the harshness of winter, the cruelty of survival even at the expense of one’s principles or sentiments. So quickly did all other things crumble away once one’s hunger began to set in. He was the simple, painful truth that all men were animals underneath, driven by cruel and primal urges once the cold had stripped all veneer away, and it only mattered where each fit in the food chain.

After so many lessons, Theon knew where he fit all too well.

He knew he had to do something. Autumn was beginning to truly take hold and the Huntsman’s power would only grow with the budding frost. Theon needed to start thinking very seriously about how he was going to salvage his situation. All of the confidence he’d displayed when he dominated Ramsay in bed that last winter seemed so far away. He had meant what he’d said: he was finally desperate enough to negotiate with the mad god and come to some sort of contract. However he would really prefer to make those negotiations whilst still in his right mind and in possession of his appendages.

Clearly Ramsay was still angry. Anger might have even been an understatement - from the look of things he’d been borderline unhinged since they last parted. Ramsay’s ego had been bruised by the last escape and he’d been acting out ever since, feral and overeager to affirm ownership over his perennial captive. This did not bode well for Theon regarding when they were properly reunited (and he was no longer so in denial as to hope it would not happen). In Ramsay’s current state he was liable to take Theon apart piece by piece before letting the prince even get a word in.

There was little changing Ramsay’s mind once it was set… but Theon knew him better than anyone didn’t he? He knew how he could soothe Ramsay’s wounded pride, if only just enough to save another extremity or two come winter.

A strange, detached calm came over him as he let out the breath he’d been holding. Even though his body was still trembling, it all felt so far away.

For several long hours he laid sleepless in the dark. It wouldn’t be too much longer, surely. Ramsay had no restraint, he wouldn’t be able to resist at least stopping by (probably with some new morbid 'present'). Theon reclined in his bed, face turned from the windows, thighs splayed apart. He took a cautious breath and waited for the faint creak of weight on his porch.

He wound up sensing it before he actually heard anything. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end and a chill danced down the length of his spine.

The low groan that escaped his lips when he breached himself with oil-slick fingers was genuine. It had to be. Ramsay always knew when he was faking. Theon made no effort to silence his breathing, taking deep and even breaths as he probed and stretched his entrance. He tried to stay true to what he would do if he were truly alone and in private, how he would hiss and moan and curse. The one thing he didn’t do was touch his cock; Ramsay never allowed him to, so he kept his other hand gripping desperately to the sheets instead.

He arched his back with a gasp as he pressed that spot deep inside himself, a sparkling heat washing through him and building with each thrust.

“Ah… my _lord_ -“ He choked on his own moan, every muscle taut as a bow string. “Ramsay-“

The creak of the porch boards was sudden and shrill. Theon froze, as he would if truly caught by surprise. He slipped his fingers from his body with a whimper before tenderly sitting upright, eyes scanning the dark windows. Seconds passed in agonizing silence. Theon reached for the crossbow at his bedside and carefully crept from the alcove housing his bed. He crossed sitting room and moved past the dimming hearth.

When he came to the latched door he waited, lingering in place. He could sense the presence on the other side of the threshold, holding just as still.

The sound of the latch being undone was like thunder in the quiet. He braced himself, and with a deep breath he pulled the door open. He pointed his crossbow at nothing but empty night air. His porch was vacant. A light dusting of snow had begun to fall and he swept his sights from left to right. No sign of an intruder, not even a passing woodland critter. With a sigh he lowered his weapon, fully aware of how ridiculous he looked half-dressed, half-hard and fully armed in his doorway.

Theon stepped back into his cabin, shutting and latching the door once more. He lay his weapon down and drew his curtains before returning to bed, feeling cautiously smug. Ramsay must have been startled indeed, to depart without even leaving his token behind. Theon couldn’t say he was sorry for it.

At least the Huntsman had spoken truthfully that night: no nymph, no succubus, no god of love or spirit of fertility could give him what he desired. Only Theon could do that.

_ “I want you, only you. I’m yours.” _

It was what he so wanted to hear, and actions spoke louder than words didn’t they? Theon sank back into bed, attention drifting back to his erection. Well. Alone at last, he might as well finish what he started.

* * *

The light autumn snows continued to fall intermittently in the coming months.

Theon continued about his duties, keeping a healthy distance between himself and the humans even as he taught them the bow and guided lost travelers through the woods. He minded the prey as the weather cooled, for every beast that survived and multiplied could mean another family fed in winter.

It took a while, but the bloody presents soon resumed. Severed hands and plucked eyes and varying pelts of skin. Little reminders that Theon was on Ramsay’s mind and in his sights, and warnings for what was to come in winter. Theon numbly disposed of the mocking gifts with regularity. Sometimes he wondered if it was really the Huntsman having a laugh, or if the man was genuinely concerned that Theon would forget about him if not constantly bullied and harassed. Like a child.

Theon gave a tired sigh, watching his breath curl in the air. The last major festival of autumn was fast approaching. Unlike the First Harvest, it wasn’t one that the Driftwood Prince had any real stake in. It was more Jon’s affair: a festival of darkness and liminality, of paying homage to the dead and looking to the uncertain future.

It was also the night that Robb finally grew too weak to leave his bedchamber. In another few weeks he would slip fully into his long slumber, and winter would be upon them.

Theon cloaked himself in mortal guise before approaching the nearby village that night. It was already alight with torches and lanterns, the town square illuminated by a roaring bonfire. At the end of the revelry each household would take a piece of it home for their personal hearths, a celebration of light even in darkness and gesture of communal unity in the long nights to come.

With Robb’s power waning the gates between life and death were slipping open. Spirits of loved ones were invited to visit their families, and food was left on porch steps or at the crossroads to appease the wandering dead. Stories were told, songs were sung, games were played. Theon watched a gaggle of youth bob for apples whilst the adults drank mead within a brightly lit barn. Elsewhere children gathered about the fire to hear their elders regale them with morbid tales.

“- and the Prince _never_ gets away Nana?” One child was asking in dismay.

The grandmother tsked, patting the boy gently on the head. “The hunt is inevitable, my sweet. The Prince and his Huntsman are bound together by greater forces that cannot be fought or unwritten. You could no sooner stop the dance of the moon and the sun.”

Theon quickly retreated backwards, as if it were possible to physically escape the squirming of his own stomach. In his haste he clumsily backed into another person, the maiden giving a startled cry.

“Oh, I’m sorry! I didn’t see you there,” she said, barely balancing the plate of sliced sweet bread she was holding.

“No, no." He quickly moved to steady her. "It was my fault."

She was pretty. The sort of simple girl he'd have once lured into the shadows to use and discard and forget instantly.

“Are you a visitor? I have not seen you before,” she smiled politely. “You know it isn’t safe to travel on the spirits’ night.”

“I’m only passing through.”

“Ah. In any case, you are most welcome.” She offered the tray towards him. “Barmbrack?”

“Thank you, but I don’t-“

“Come now, try your luck.” She leaned in to whisper conspiratorially. “Someone already got the slice with the matchstick. And the bread’s good too, of course.”

Theon smiled weakly before taking a slice at random. “You’re kind.”

“You’re our guest. This is the night for good hospitality,” she said with a wink. “One never knows who might be a wandering ghost or god in disguise.”

He spared himself from having to respond by taking a bite of the bread, his tooth immediately coming down on something hard.

“Oh, what’d you get?”

The maiden watched with interest as he tongued the item free from the cake and plucked it from his mouth. Between his fingers was a simple ring, probably forged from spare iron at the blacksmith’s.

“Lucky you! All the girls will be up in arms to hear someone’s already gotten the ring,” she said with a laugh. “Looks like you’ll be married within a year’s time, stranger.”

He watched as she brought her tray around to the other guests, leaving him at the edge of the festivities. He only stood there, awkward and not fully sure of what to do with himself.

“Lucky indeed,” the voice spoke too close to his ear, sending an icy chill down Theon’s neck. “But I’d put that away if I were you. Can’t imagine what the young master would do at the thought of you giving promises to someone else.”

Theon scowled and discarded the ring into the grass. “It’s just a silly game. Why are _you_ here?”

Locke smiled thinly, arms spread in greeting. “Tis the night of spirits, of course. I come bearing all the vengeful dead who wish to pay the living a long-awaited visit.”

Theon warily eyed his surroundings with a growing frown. In his periphery he could make out the smudged visages of restless ghosts, many of whom were ominously trailing the footsteps of unsuspecting humans. Locke was the Shade Keeper, a minor god and loyal lieutenant to the Dread Lord. A skilled hunter and tormentor in his own right, he minded the damned souls of his master’s realm. According to the tales he’d also been an ally to Ramsay in the demigod’s quests for ascension.

“So here I be, going about my duty, when who do I happen to find?” Locke was saying, eyes uncomfortably sharp despite the easy charm of his tone. “Ramsay’s pet rat, scuttling around the overworld.”

“I was just passing through.”

“I heard.” Locke laughed, a cold and mean sound. “Son, you have the young lord worked up in some _special_ kind of madness this time. Back and forth like a hanged man, he’s been swinging. Can’t say I’ve ever seen the like.”

“I’ll bet I have.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure. But oh, don’t let me spoil the surprise. Just wait ’til you see all the delights he’s got planned. We’re all _so_ excited to be having you back with us again.” Locke gave him a mocking little bow. “Now I’m afraid I must be off. Work to be done and all that. Do enjoy yourself in the meanwhile... seeing as you won’t be getting out much after.”

In a whirl of cold air and shadow he was gone.

Theon couldn’t help but shudder in the aftermath. Everyone associated with the Dread Lord was a monster in thin disguise, but Locke was one of the worst.

He wandered aimlessly to the barn, suddenly desperate for a drink. It was growing late enough that most of the children had retired to their beds, leaving the adults to escalate in their revelry. The men served him a pint with scarcely a second glance, already deep in their own cups. He then promptly sat himself in a corner. He'd avoided liquor in the past, afraid of being unguarded and loose-tongued where others could hear, but at the moment he had other concerns.

“You look like a man with a lot on your mind.”

Theon glanced up at the elderly woman who was going around filling cups.

He shrugged sullenly. “Not looking forward to winter.”

“True of us all. It feels like we’re due for a harsh one too. Us older folk aren’t likely to see the spring.” She said it so plainly, as if the prospect was only slightly inconvenient.

“You don’t sound bothered.”

“Aye, nature is a harsh mistress. And the gods harsher still. I’ve lived a full life regardless.” The matron gave him a searching look. “You’d be the stranger Mel says got the ring, then?”

“I think I’ve had enough games.”

“Don’t be so grim! You’re a young lad with his whole life ahead. Here.” She handed him a plate with a single oatmeal bannock square. “You know how they work, don’t you?”

Theon looked dully down at it and nodded. Yet another one of the fortune-telling games young maids liked to play, trying to invoke visions of their life’s love. Eating the salted bread before bed supposedly resulted in a dream of their future mate offering a beverage. A silly little ritual that he didn’t need to indulge in. His gaze drifted back to the where the mead was flowing.

“They don’t work if you drink after! Go on, three bites and be on your way. It’s getting late and you shouldn’t be traveling the roads during the witching hour.” The matron left with a friendly pat on his arm. “Maybe it’ll put a smile on that sad face when you dream of your future bride.”

Theon examined the oatmeal bannock for another moment, common sense and morbid curiosity doing battle within him. There was no positive outcome to knowing his love’s identity. Such was a terrible, forbidden knowledge that would only bring pain. But it was just another harmless game, wasn’t it? Just because the encounter with Locke had him out of sorts, it was nothing he needed to fuss about.

And perhaps part of him really did want to know, masochistic as it was. He’d successfully made a martyr out of himself as penance for his past crimes, dedicating himself to serving the land and the people and thus the monarchs he cared for so dearly... but the greedy part of him wondered if there was something out there just for him, something worth living and suffering for.

It didn’t surprise him that Ramsay had been fluctuating between rage and lust all cycle. Such were his two primary states of being after all, at least where Theon was concerned. Lust was easier to manage, but unfortunately Ramsay’s lust for blood was hard to extricate from his lust for the flesh. That aside, when Ramsay was pursuing his pleasure he was at the very least a happy man. Theon didn’t regret the stunt he’d pulled - the less Ramsay felt he had to prove in regards to his claim, the better.

Yet even with that all said and done, an erratic Ramsay was the worst kind of all. Clearly no one had ever taught the man how to properly contend with his emotions (not that Theon had much space to judge). When he felt anything too strongly, or too much at once, it was Ramsay’s typical route to simply go blank and pick up the nearest blade.

Theon knew he had been… upset. The attacks from his cult and the spreading of that awful rumor made that clear enough. But it wasn’t that bad, surely? Not a frothing, burn-the-world-down, insensibly rabid tier of bad, was it? Or had stoking his passions made it worse, further overloading the Huntsman with feelings he didn’t know how to manage? That was just unreasonable.

Even if Theon had kind of… sort of… raped him last winter.

He took another drink and told himself he wasn’t bothered. So Ramsay could deal it out but he couldn’t take it. What else was new.

The bannock went down dry. It was horribly salty, which was the whole point.

Theon left the barn without another word, passing by the dwindling bonfire and entering the woods that bordered the village. He carried on through the dark and over the thin layer of snow until he was finally back at his cabin. Though his throat burned for water, he shuttered himself indoors and all but collapsed into his bed.

* * *

The first thing he knew was that he was cold.

The dread realm was not a burning hell, but a frozen one. Endless snow-capped woods, sprawling atop endless rimy dungeons. Nothing but ice and suffering and lost, damned souls. Who could say it was Theon’s fault, when he leaned into the heat he was offered?

The body sliding over his was a familiar one, strong and unyielding. After the Huntsman’s eyes, Theon had always been most fascinated his hands. They were broad and calloused, but deft and capable of such terrible cruelty.

“Did you think it was going to be that easy?” Ramsay purred, lips brushing Theon’s ear. “Did you think you’d find your happy ending? Ride off into the sunset and leave me behind?”

“No,” Theon admitted, his voice so small. “I knew that I wouldn’t.”

There was no such thing for him. There never was.

The grip on his neck tightened. “What, then?”

“I thought there might be nothing,” Theon rasped, arching beneath the Huntsman’s touch. “It’s either you or nothing.”

“You say the sweetest things.” Ramsay nuzzled his cheek. “But oh, where are my manners? You’re parched.”

He kissed him deeply, hungrily, like he wanted to siphon out Theon’s life force and consume it whole.

Once Theon’s tongue was coaxed past his lips, there was the sudden, sharp pain of wicked teeth sinking into the vulnerable muscle. He gasped, too shocked to scream, as blood began to flow into his mouth and down his throat. He couldn’t help but choke on it, tears welling up in his eyes.

“It’s time to go home, prince.” Ramsay grinned, his teeth stained vivid red. “Winter has come for you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More notes!
> 
> \- I have mentioned this before, but it bears repeating that ‘abduction as courtship’ was not strange in ancient times. In fact it was often considered a valid prelude to marriage. Even once this faded, the tradition of a groom ceremonially abducting the bride before the wedding was intact for a long time (and I think some cultures still do it today just for fun). So Ramsay abducting Theon, on its own, is Not That Bad by those standards. It's all the other stuff that Theon won't admit to that people would be horrified by.
> 
> \- Theon’s cabin scuttling about on crab legs is a reference to Baba Yaga’s house, which was mobile due to its very long chicken legs.
> 
> \- The nymphs that Theon encounters are an amalgamation of various nature spirits that exist across cultures with slight variations (rusalka, samodiva, lamia, vila, tunda, xana…). They often dwell in the forest, within rivers or ponds. They are associated with fertility and when benevolent will assist the harvest. However they are also dangerous seducers known to lure men to their deaths, either by drowning them in their pools or by dancing them to exhaustion.  
> > Although succubi myths are more numerous than incubi, male versions of this danger exist, such as with the gancanagh: an Irish fae spirit that seduces both men and women. With a single touch he drives his victims mad with lust and desire to the point of enslavement, and revels in destroying their reputations and sanity as a result.
> 
> \- The festivals were an amalgamation of traditions inherent to the harvest sabbats of Lughnasadh, Mabon and Samhain.  
> > Lughnasadh was a time of tourneys and sport competitions, not unlike the Greeks’ Olympic games. The harvest was depicted through a triangle between three gods: Com Dubh (who guards the grain like treasure), Lugh (who seeks to steal the grain to give to mankind), and Eithne (a woman who symbolizes the grain itself). Lugh was always ultimately successful and bread was baked in his likeness.  
> > Mabon: The autumn equinox. Essentially pagan Thanksgiving. Fresh fruits or wheat from the harvest were given in offerings as shows of gratitude and to secure favor from the gods.  
> > Samhain: The precursor to Halloween! The final harvest of autumn. With the days getting shorter and nights getting longer, it was a festival of darkness. Spirits of the deceased were invited to participate and respects were paid to lost loved ones. Meals were left on doorsteps or at crossroads to be consumed by wandering spirits or fae. A bonfire would be lit and everyone would take pieces of it home for their hearths at the end of the night. Divination rituals were common, often through games involving apples or hazelnuts. It was also a Celtic custom to bake a big loaf (Barmbrack) with items hidden inside, each having a meaning for your fortune. An hour before midnight young maids would eat a salty oatmeal bannock in three bites and go right to sleep without drinking; they would then dream of their future spouse offering them a beverage.
> 
> \- Ancient Greece took hospitality very seriously, even extending it to strangers. It was heavily encouraged to let vagrants spend a night in your house or at least have a meal, because all beggars were believed to have been sent by the gods (or sometimes were gods in disguise).
> 
> \- Locke’s identity here is a thematic amalgamation of Charon (the ferryman to the underworld) and the Keres (goddesses of violent death). I know Locke was a living deviation from the book, but I really liked his arc and his friendship with Ramsay was so intriguing to me.
> 
> Oh, and I have a new tumblr (@sylvanwhispers !) in case you wanna shoot me an ask or slip a cheeky prompt in there. I can't make promises, but I do have a lot of time on my hands atm. It’s really been esp rewarding to write and connect with fandom during these quarantine times.


	4. Winter (Part 1)

Winter came too soon.

It always brought on a vaguely sickening, uncomfortable feeling in Theon’s stomach to realize that the turning of the season had finally arrived. He had spent the past week crafting new arrows and bolts, sharpening his knives. He couldn’t say how much good it would all do him, but the actions at least brought him some comfort.

“You’re not going back into the woods, are you m’lord?”

Theon barely spared the merchant a glance, his eyes trained on the forest’s edge. The trees draped the land like a cloak, an endless cape of wood and green. It tapered off just before the cliffs, right where the land sharply sloped down to meet the sea. He wondered if even now he was being watched, or if Ramsay was already in his keep preparing with his men for the night to come.

“I am.”

“I’d urge you to reconsider. There’s room at the inn for a fair price. Hell, a few good folks ‘round here have opened up their homes and barns for those in need-“

“My route is not far.”

“That may be, but those who go within those trees are not likely to return at the best of times,” the man said grimly. “Now the Hunter’s Moon is on the rise. Why, just last winter the local woodsman was savaged for getting between the Lord Huntsman and his quarry. His poor daughter had to sell the homestead and take up work at the pub.”

Theon scowled, the weight of the crossbow heavy in his hands. “You’ve given this warning out to others?”

“Aye, m’lord. Though most everyone already knows, we do what we can to keep folk out of the forest.”

Eyes still on the treeline, with practiced form Theon raised his new weapon, holding it steady to test its sights.

“Good.”

The less collateral the better. He stopped by the pub on his way back, guilt compelling him to slip some extra coin into the barmaid’s apron. A poor price for the life of her father, but at least the girl herself was all the more likely to see another spring. Sometimes it felt like Theon’s whole life was one long, perpetual cycle of punishment and penance.

He gave one final longing look at the sea. Euron and Yara would be making war by now, the clash of their steel breeding hurricanes all along the western coast. Euron always got the upper hand in autumn, a chokehold that was not to be reversed until Yara finally exhausted him in winter.

With a sigh Theon turned and made his way back into the woods. The forest was dead quiet as he journeyed down the trail and toward his cabin. Even the birds had fallen silent. It had been snowing since midday and a thick layer of white now coated the earth, weighing down the trees and frosting the lake.

The North King was finally asleep, the barriers between worlds had fallen, and the Hunter’s Moon was soon to rise.

* * *

A strange calm overcame Theon as the sun began to slip beneath the horizon. He felt strangely detached from his body as he strapped his quiver to his hip and his crossbow to his back. His longbow was a familiar weight in his hands.

He bid his cabin to sink back beneath the surface of the lake. He wouldn’t be needing it anymore.

The overcast sky stained blood red and snow was falling heavier than ever, descending from the darkening clouds in large flakes. He could only hope it would keep up so as to cover his tracks. He was a ways into the hills when the sky finally drained into darkness. Between the plumes of cloud the Hunter’s Moon, full and crimson, was mounting the heavens.

Then he heard the horn.

Ramsay loved that fucking horn and Theon was hard pressed to find a sound he hated more. It was deafening, echoing long and loud for miles in an ominous timbre that never failed to send chills down his spine.

There were a few things that a person learned after being chased a time or two through the woods. Using the trails was the only way to truly progress, with moving through the bush simply too cumbersome to make ground. However it was also the most vulnerable place to be, as a man on foot could get run down by a hunting party in a manner of minutes. In contrast, horses were also slow off-trail as well as incapable of pursuing anything downhill.

The biggest danger was always the hounds. Theon had been spreading his scent around the region for the past few days. It wouldn’t trick Ramsay, who had undoubtedly been shadowing his steps all the while, but any time bought with the pack was worth it. Confusing the scent and leaving the pack disorganized was vital to not getting run up a tree before the night was out.

Theon had ended more than a few hunts that way, huddled atop some great oak as the hellbeasts circled the trunk with tails and tongues wagging. The longer he put off climbing down to face defeat, the more of the hunting party would eventually congregate to watch his inevitable humiliation.

If nothing else, he was determined to at the very least not go through _that_ again.

The icy winds carried the howls and baying of the hellhounds from afar. The hunters would be splitting up to cover more ground and pursue the diverging trails. Theon had laid various traps throughout the woods - again, nothing that would hinder Ramsay in any serious way, but snares and triplines that would efficiently slow and whittle down the rest of the party.

Theon hugged the hillside, using the scrub and shadows as cover even though his shape was a dark splotch against the pristine snow. From his vantage point he could see the glow of torchlight as a faction thundered down a trail. The prey of the forest having goodwill for him, it was little surprise when a raccoon darted across the path, initiating an uproar as the horses spooked and bucked their riders. The distraction allowed Theon to scurry into better cover, the noise covering up the unavoidable crackling and snapping that came with navigating foliage.

Hit and run tactics were by far the most effective. His next encounter with a group of the party had him shooting a lead rider in the shoulder with a crossbow bolt. Before they could discern from where the shot had come he was already scrabbling down a ravine where the horses couldn’t follow. The more Theon managed to inconvenience and slow his pursuers, the more headway he was able to make to the forest’s edge.

Though Theon had never managed it, he had come to know that if he outlasted the Hunter’s Moon, he would win. The Lord Huntsman had his own divine responsibilities and obligations - in winter most of all - and simply was not allowed to ride out with the hunting party every evening in pursuit of his quarry. The Dread Lord had allegedly put his foot down: one night, one chance. Then back to work.

Ramsay had never seemed bothered. After all Theon never won.

_“You could no sooner stop the dance of the moon and the sun.”_

He was making good time this night, however. The hunting party was scattered, flustered. The horses were unsettled and the hellhounds distracted. Theon had faced down this winter’s eve with grim resolve and bitterness in his heart; for the first time not daring to hope for escape, but determined regardless to put up as much of a fight as possible out of pure spite.

Yet even with his low expectations he was nearing the border of the woods. He wasn’t going to risk taking shelter in the nearby village, but there were caverns and tunnels woven into the foot of the mountain where he could possibly take shelter-

Theon was sprinting through the snow when a sudden, intense pain snapped down upon his foot. His scream echoed throughout the trees as he crumpled into the knee-deep snow in a plume of ice dust. He could only describe the feeling as something _biting_ him, its sharp teeth clamping mercilessly down across the whole of his ankle.

Head spinning, Theon rolled onto his back and looked down to assess the damage. His vision swam and stomach turned at the sight of an ironwood beartrap half-buried into his flesh, his ichor bright and brilliant as it stained the snow. In an instant it felt like his body had gone numb, leg stiff and refusing to cooperate with his mind’s commands for movement.

He felt terrible shift in the air as the wind changed. The world seemed to grow darker. His blood instinctively chilled to match the frigid winds around him.

The sound of leisurely footsteps causally grinding through the snow was soft, faint. Circling him like a predator.

“No one gives me a good chase like you do.”

Theon’s breath caught in his throat at that familiar voice. The hairs on his neck stood on end as the steps passed behind him but he refused to turn and look.

“I see you’ve found one of my little surprises,” Ramsay said, breath warming his ear. “Don’t be cross with me. I just couldn’t be sure that you wouldn’t get up to another one of your awful tricks.”

There was the gust of a long cloak catching the wind as the Huntsman idly circled around to stare Theon down. His eyes were like ash, like winter stars. Though he seemed composed, Theon could sense something disconcerting beneath the surface. Ramsay was practically vibrating with barely leashed energy, with everything from his gaze to his grin having a distinctively unhinged quality.

He gave the trap’s chain a brief tug, causing Theon’s vision to momentarily black out as the contraption’s teeth scraped against bone.

“You have been a _very_. Bad. Dog.”

Theon groaned. His hands were shaking, conflicted about whether he should try to free himself or not. Every glance at his foot, broken and bleeding within the trap’s maw, made his world turn over.

“Oh, don’t go fading on me now. I know how you’ve missed me.”

There was the distinctive click of Ramsay’s belt. He kneeled easily between Theon’s legs, spreading them wide enough to crowd in close and press a kiss to Theon’s rapidly paling cheek.

“I’ve missed you to.” Whispered conspiratorially, like a secret. “You’ve had me worked up in fits all cycle, you naughty boy. What’s to be done about that?”

“I hear you’ve got plenty of ideas,” Theon said vacantly.

He watched glassy-eyed as his own trousers were worked down to his knees. At that point Ramsay took his knife and easily split the garment in half, apparently finding it easier than working them all the way past Theon’s boots.

“Mm. You’ve certainly been on my mind. I-” Ramsay rubbed at Theon’s entrance with a gloved finger before going rigid. “Did you…?”

Theon swallowed a moan as the finger breached him without waiting for a response, exploring the give of his flesh and the residual slick of oil.

“… You sordid _whore_ ,” Ramsay hissed, eyes wide and feral. “Is this how you spent your last day? While I was rallying my hounds and readying the party, were you bent over with your fingers stuffed up your cunt?”

Theon could only shrug haplessly. “It’s our night.”

He might have been a slow learner, but when Ramsay had fucked him raw so many winters now, what did the man expect?

“You’re disgusting,” Ramsay said, voice heavy with lust.

He then captured Theon’s mouth in a biting kiss, teeth sinking mercilessly into chilled lips. When he pulled away his pupils were blown wide in an endless abyss.

“Ramsay, I-“ Theon’s words were lost in a yelp of discomfort.

The Huntsman was already impatiently bullying his way inside, laying his claim with little ceremony. He was already dripping, cock wet and hard as it slid past Theon's sensitive rim. He locked their bodies together with a sigh, length pressing firmly into all of the places within Theon’s body that shamed him.

“You humiliated me last time,” he said breathlessly, words ghosting across Theon’s cheek. “And after I was so _good_ to you, too. Truly hurt my feelings.”

The preparation helped but the pace he set was rough and unsympathetic, belying the rage and frustration the Huntsman had apparently been living with all cycle. It wasn’t long before he was panting and growling like an animal, eyes wild and borderline murderous.

“You’ve - ngh, you’ve hurt that and more of mine,” Theon said, teeth locked so tight his jaw ached.

“What makes you think you can do that, hm?” Ramsay snarled, apparently too far gone to listen. “You think you can bat those sweet eyes at me and then throw my kindness in my face? You think you can - can just make me _feel_ things and then walk away? How _fucking_ dare you. You’re mine! You’ll do as I say and stay where I put you and _love me if I tell you to_ , damn it- !”

Ramsay pinned him with his full weight, burying Theon in snow and heat. The rhythm was a cruel, uneven beat hammering directly onto that special place inside, and Theon could feel himself growing lightheaded from blood loss, lack of air and building stimulation. His leg had long gone numb, from shock or whatever else, but in the back of his mind he was aware of the fact that his body was screaming in more ways than one. Even so Theon’s cock was erect and dripping, trapped between his stomach and the Huntsman’s front, beautiful friction igniting sparks in his chest as they rutted together like animals in the woods.

“You can’t make a fool out of me,” Ramsay whispered to himself, looking and sounding half mad. “You can’t make me weak.”

Theon had heard enough. Swallowing down the taste of blood in his throat, he wrapped one arm around Ramsay’s shoulders. With the other hand he cupped his captor’s face.

“I’m here,” he said, voice hoarse. “My lord.”

Ramsay finally seemed to snap back to reality somewhat, his eyes blinking away their mindless savagery. Theon took the opportunity to pull him in, kissing him firmly but gently on his bloodstained lips. Ramsay groaned against Theon’s mouth, hips stuttering. Immediately there was the wet heat of seed flooding Theon’s body. Theon arched his back, grinding his hips against the weight of Ramsay’s form until finally cresting at the peak of his own release.

For several moments they laid together in the snow, the Huntsman’s cloak fanned over them as icy winds whistled through the trees. The cadence of their thrumming hearts and staggered breathing mingled together. When Ramsay finally pulled away his gaze was clear, a familiar smirk on his face. As if his moment of instability had not happened.

“I hope you enjoyed your freedom, prince.” He ran a gloved finger down Theon’s jaw. “I have a very good feeling about this winter.”

* * *

Once Ramsay had his hands on Theon he was unwilling to let him go.

From the journey to the Dreadfort’s realm and down into the labyrinthian depths of the dungeons, he kept his captive firmly in his grasp. With Theon unable to do more than hobble on one foot as the other left a trail of ichor in his wake, a steady body to lean on was more or less necessary.

“So.” Ramsay flung him into a sturdy wooden chair and promptly set to strapping him in. “I am dying to know how you’ve been, dearest. Seems like you’ve been up to all sorts of fun while you were away.”

“Is that what it seems like?” Theon asked faintly, gaze still drawn to his mauled mess of a right foot. The damage wasn’t as bad as it looked - the flesh was a horror to behold and the muscles were torn, but the bones in his ankle remained largely intact.

“Don’t fuss.” Ramsay grabbed his jaw to force eye contact. “Tell me. Did you have a good time this spring? Lay with any desperate sluts while you were abroad?”

“You know I didn’t!” Theon snapped, gripping the armrests of the chair with a shrill creak. “You know I haven’t in ages!”

“I do, do I?” Ramsay asked cruelly. “Because you’re so fucking loyal, is that right?”

“Because I know what you’d do,” Theon said coldly. “I got your message, by the way. You didn’t need to bring my people into this.”

“If you had still been with me, all of those men would be alive today,” Ramsay said. “You should be grateful I threw their bits back into the sea for your sister, rather than leaving their souls to clutter my realm. Did you like that touch, by the way? The feet, cocks, tongues - it’s all the parts of you that have given me the most trouble.”

“I noticed.” Theon swallowed roughly. “And the rumor? I suspect that was your doing too. Telling the world that we’re lovers, of all things.”

“It’s not really a rumor if it’s true.” Ramsay looked at him inscrutably. “You laid with me. You _begged_ me to take you on my altar. You shared my bed more nights than not last winter.”

He sank right into Theon’s space, the tips of their noses brushing together.

“And you _will_ give in to me, prince. I’m going to make an honest man out of you. Literally - all your guilt about lying to dear King Robb can go away, just like that.” Ramsay’s expression darkened, twisting into something bitter and malevolent. “And I know how much you care for his opinion.”

“I’ve already told you. The things you think about me and Robb aren’t true. They never have been.”

“You’re either the world’s greatest idiot or think I must be,” Ramsay snapped. “I’ve seen you two together. I’ve seen how you smile at him, how you touch him, the way he looks at you -“

“You’re reading meanings that are not there,” Theon said stubbornly. “I told him that your rumor was true and he was only supportive!”

“That’s because he knows I can do what he can’t,” Ramsay said as he pulled away. “I’m going to be the one who finally binds you to the pantheon.”

Theon sighed heavily. This wasn’t going anywhere.

“Look, I know… I know that you’re upset. I know you have to punish me for what I did to you. But I thought we were actually going to talk this time.”

“Talk?” Ramsay asked loftily, examining a nearby tray of metallic instruments.

“Yes, talk! About us. About, I don’t know, about the future.”

“The future seems plain enough to me,” Ramsay said, deliberately nonchalant. “You’re home now and it’s where you’ll stay. Eventually you’re going to come to your senses and swear deference to me. The road we take to get there is up to you.”

Theon opened and closed his mouth, indignation overriding the throbbing pain that was starting to regain prominence in his leg.

“I’m not just going to give myself over to you unconditionally! We need to negotiate this!” He said, struggling against his restraints. “Did you not hear anything I said last time? Or maybe you didn’t, given you were too busy moaning and fucking my mouth-“

The backhand was swift and expected. Theon pointedly spat a splotch of blood onto the stone floor.

“You mind your fucking tongue before I cut it out like I did for your humans,” Ramsay said lowly.

“You’re impossible,” Theon said, frustration mounting. “I’m actually trying to barter with you. Even though all you’ve ever done is hurt and degrade me, I’m trying! But it’s not enough, is it!? All you want to do is take, take, take. You want my blood, my skin, my love - well you have to fucking give somewhere, Ramsay!”

“I don’t _have_ to do anything,” Ramsay said, eyes flashing venomously. “You’re not the one in control here. I am.”

“And because you’ve said it, it must be true,” Theon sneered. “For all your bitching about Robb, at least he would _never_ hurt me as you have. No wonder you’re so fucking jealous of him. It’s because you know that if given the choice, I’d have absolutely no reason to choose you instead!”

It was perhaps the worst thing he could have said under any circumstances, let alone when Ramsay had clearly been emotional and unhinged the past several seasons. He just couldn’t help it. It was like the Old Theon had suddenly jumped out, the one who always knew the cruelest and most cutting words to deal a person.

For a long moment there was silence. Ramsay stared unblinking, stunned. Then slowly a cold and terrible calm slid into place over his features.

“Well,” he said with false cheer. “Alright then.”

He grabbed something metallic from the nearby tray, along with a medium-sized mallet. Without preamble he swiftly brought the hammer down, drilling a long iron spike through Theon’s previously uninjured foot.

Theon screamed first in shock, then in pain as agony shot up his whole leg. This one had definitely broken something, the awful snap of it reverberating through his bones. Between this and the mauling of his other ankle, he didn’t know how he was going to walk. The spike protruded from Theon’s foot, shiny and grotesque, pinning him to the chair’s wooden platform.

“You say you’ll never choose me? _Fine!_ ” Ramsay said, his saccharine grin utterly deranged. “Don’t choose. I don’t _need_ you to choose!”

He snatched a blade from the table and began to work it under Theon’s right thumbnail. With vicious efficiency he parted nail from flesh, cutting and jimmying it from its bed.

It was a torture that Theon knew well, but there was little desensitizing oneself to the Huntsman’s ministrations regardless. He screamed himself raw, his pulse kicking up from panic as well as pain. Ramsay had never taken his thumbs before, likely because there was next to nothing that Theon could do without them. He could not serve, he could not pour wine - he could scarcely tie his own laces without thumbs.

“Rams- my lord-“

“ _I’ll_ fucking choose,” Ramsay muttered to himself, reaching blindly for the pliers to finally wrench the bloody nail free. “What do I care what you want!?”

“I’m sorry!” Theon shouted, tears streaming down his cheeks as he thrashed against his restraints in earnest. “I didn’t mean it! I was just upset, _I’m sorry!”_

Ramsay fixed him with a look that was pure violence.

“Excuse me,” he said, voice eerily gentle and polite. “You must have me mistaken for someone else. I’m not King Robb, you see. All _I_ know how to do is _hurt_ you.”

Ramsay flashed his flaying knife before pressing it to the base of Theon’s thumb.

“Deep breaths, my love. This is going to take a while.”

* * *

It might well have been the worst start to any winter they’d ever had.

Theon sat at the dining table, whole body trembling as he stared down at his plate.

“Now, now. You must be hungry,” Ramsay was saying, voice sweet but eyes cruel. “Is the food not to my prince’s liking?”

Theon looked at him with dead, hollow eyes. Ramsay’s brow quirked, challenging and disdainful.

By this time in previous winters Theon would still be struggling. He’d kick and spit and curse, only to be broken down gradually over the course of weeks. Never before had he been made so docile so quickly. Yet the Huntsman did not seem especially glad for it, apparently finding little victory nor satisfaction in his victim’s defeat.

With a faint sigh Theon finally moved to pick up a piece of cutlery. He knew what Ramsay wanted.

The fork, of course, slipped through his fingers with a clatter immediately. Without thumbs he had simply no way to wield it. There were now ugly stitched wounds where the digits had been, thinly veiled by a layer of bloodstained gauze. The ache of them was nothing compared to agonizing burn he’d experienced when Ramsay had decided to leave the flayed extremities as they were overnight. Theon had wept tears of relief and gratitude when the amputations finally took place.

“Aw. Poor babe,” Ramsay said, cheek resting in his palm and words dripping in condescension. “My boy can’t even feed himself. Do you need help, puppy?”

He pulled Theon’s plate towards himself and began to cut the food for him. He speared a bit of meat on a fork and held it out for Theon to eat.

“Come on. Say ‘ah’.” He gave the fork a little wag when Theon only stared at it with increasingly wet eyes. “Don’t cry, sweetling. I’m only taking care of you, since you clearly can’t manage it yourself.”

It was difficult to articulate exactly what Theon was feeling. It was some unholy mix of anger, pain, humiliation and guilt. How could he have been so stupid, so callous? He knew exactly where Ramsay’s insecurities lay, and instead of dancing around or playing them for his benefit as he usually did, Theon had all but gracelessly fired a catapult into the danger zone.

“No?” Ramsay lowered the fork and made a show of having a realization. “Oh! Of course. Silly me. Dogs don’t eat with utensils, upright in chairs like people! Now I understand.”

He picked up the plate before dropping it flat to the floor at the foot of the table. A few errant vegetables bounced off and onto the tile. Ramsay snapped his fingers and pointed downward.

“Go on then. Eat it.”

It took a while for Theon to navigate himself out of the chair and onto the floor. With both his thumbs gone and both his feet injured, most every movement brought him pain. Finally he found himself in the familiar position of elbows and knees, the cold plate before him.

He was incapable of walking. Ramsay had thus taken to leading him about with a collar and chain, forcing him to crawl like a beast at his heels. Mortifying as it was when the ghouls mocked and leered, Theon took cold comfort in knowing that he had very little dignity to protect in the first place.

He swallowed what scraps of pride he still had and ate without use of his hands, like an animal. He was only grateful that at least it was real and substantial food before him, when one could only guess when that would be the case again.

Ramsay watched him with unreadable eyes, his expression blank and unfeeling despite the false manners or enthusiasm he put on. Ever since that first night in the dungeon he had been utterly glacial in a way Theon had never seen before. Cruelty was an old hat to the Huntsman, as well as something Theon was more than used to enduring… but this was different. Ramsay was not only merciless, he was _distant_. Brooding. Even in moments like these, when his prey was so obviously suffering and debased, the man seemed to gain no pleasure. If anything his disdain and frustration only grew.

There was the sudden, heavy weight of a boot on the middle of Theon’s back, pushing him down until he was all but laying on the floor. The boot then moved to the base of his neck, preventing him from craning to look upwards.

“ _Lower_.”

Theon grimaced but complied, adjusting his stance as he continued to mouth food off of the plate. The bruises on his elbows and knees had long since turned from yellow to purple to black. He had been on all fours more often than not these days and could feel the pain of it right to his bones.

He just didn’t know how to set things right. Although he had tried, his master had no ear for apologies. At his last attempt Ramsay had cut him off entirely, saying that if he spoke out of turn again it would mean losing his tongue at last.

This sort of thing had never happened before - not even when Ramsay had castrated him out of rage and jealousy did his bad mood linger in this manner. If it were just a simple matter of Theon’s harsh statement, the matter would already be resolved. Far worse insults have been exchanged between the two. The only reason for why the words had cut so deep… was that Ramsay actually believed them.

Which meant that the Lord Huntsman was actually _hurt_ over their argument. And just what the hell was Theon supposed to do about that?

* * *

Perhaps the most worrying and telling detail to Theon’s circumstances was that instead of being kept in the kennels or in Ramsay’s chambers, he now resided almost full time in the dungeons. Degrading as it always was to be one of the Huntsman’s hounds, it was a significant step up from being his prisoner. The dungeon cells were damp and cold. The screams of tormented souls were liable to keep Theon up at all hours. It was more than enough to make him long for his kennel stall and its straw bed, and for the warmth of huddling amongst the hellhounds at night.

Theon twisted uncomfortably in his bindings, wincing at every pull on the hash of lacerations marking his back. For the first time in many winters, Damon had been called upon to whip him bloody as the Huntsman watched. It had been so long since Ramsay had allowed one of his boys to lay hands on him. He had held the whip himself to Theon’s lips, forcing him to kiss the implement about to inflict his suffering. Then he returned to his throne, eyes of pure ice as he watched the punishment transpire.

Although the ghouls derived their own pleasure from Theon’s pain, they also had their own problems to worry about.

Theon’s constant presence at Ramsay’s side was giving him a front row seat to just how intolerable the lord had been towards everybody in his keep. The Huntsman was short-tempered and harsh as he dictated the realm’s functions, his judgement more disproportionate than ever as he delegated punishments to damned souls.

It was plain to see that the dread realm’s residents and staff had hoped Theon’s presence would offer some sort of reprieve, and that the bad temperament and mood swings Ramsay had been inflicting on them all might finally abate. Yet that had not been the case, and folks were starting to feel cheated. On many a night Theon had heard their voices echoing down the halls in the dungeons.

“Absolute bollocks is what it is,” Skinner was saying, words overlaid with the screaming of some poor soul down the hall. “The hell did we catch the fucker for? To make Ramsay _worse?_ ”

“I heard he gutted you again,” Alyn said. “That’s rough man.”

“Oh piss off. I’m just sayin’ it ain’t right. He goes absolutely rabid all cycle long, finally gets his toy back and he’s _still_ a fuckin’ nightmare.”

“I don’t even get what’s the big deal,” Alyn said. “So what if the fish prince is only around in winter? He comes back. I’d get sick of him if he were here all the damn time.”

“I’m already sick of him. But you know how Ramsay is. He loves that wretched creature.”

An awful sinking sensation settled into Theon’s stomach. There was that word again, as if the Huntsman were actually capable of love. Want, hunger and lust were simply not the same, although it was clear Ramsay felt all of those things in excess. However even if they weren’t love, those feelings were still real and raw. Theon would admit that the pair of them had gotten… close last winter. As close to consensual as their relationship had ever been, and something about it had apparently overwhelmed Ramsay’s already scant coping skills.

Ramsay had the emotional regulatory abilities of a child, often prone to getting overcome by his passions and impulses. It had fallen upon Theon to manage Ramsay’s moods for him, since the Huntsman was nearly incapable of doing it himself. The endeavor was always a bit of a gamble, with Ramsay being volatile and unpredictable at the best of times, but there did exist a certain method to the madness. If the current situation was left alone, heavens only knew what hell would be brought upon them all.

As always, Theon would have to enact damage control.

He gave another tentative twist at his restraints. The ropes were rough on his bruised skin. Though they were tight, as always, they had also been wrapped to accommodate the bandages still adorning his hands and wrists. It took a while of twisting and painful chafing on his stitches, but eventually Theon was able to rub the bandages off. The resulting slack was meager, but enough to eventually writhe and wriggle his ruined hand free. From there it was a few minutes of thumb-less fumbling to release his other hand.

He nearly bit his own tongue bloody when his weight shifted from his arms to his feet, injuries screaming in pain. Immediately he crumpled to his knees, tears welling in his eyes. How in the hell was he supposed to do this when he was barely mobile?

On forearms and knees he hobbled to the nearby tray of surgical instruments, selecting a long metal rod that Ramsay had once slid up the slit of Theon’s cock. He made his way to the cell door and carefully inserted it into the keyhole. It took twice as long without thumbs and several times Theon was forced to steady the damn thing by taking the other end of the rod in his mouth. At last after several minutes of careful prodding, there was the distinctive click of the lock popping open.

He listened carefully. Skinner and Alyn were still down the hall, their casual conversation at odds with the screams and begging of the prisoner they were tormenting. Theon eased the door open before shuffling his way into the hall and easing it shut again. This was not his first daring escape from the dungeons. He now knew his way through the twisting halls; which cell blocks were least likely to be occupied, which storerooms were often left unlocked... they were many cycles away from that first winter, wherein he fumbled blind and lost through the maze.

The only thing - the most painful and degrading thing - was that walking was simply not on the table. He must have looked utterly ridiculous, crawling and periodically rolling into cover, ducking into empty cells and closets as he navigated the dungeons. However there was no one around to witness it, and though the work was slow, it was effective. It felt like it took all night for him to reach the service stairwell, at which point he nearly collapsed from relief and exhaustion.

If he were a smarter man, he’d have made for the stables to steal a horse. Instead he continued to ascend. His knees and elbows were bloody and blackened with dirt from the rough stone floors, but he pulled himself up the stairs, step by agonizing step.

He could feel the shadows moving and pulling away from him as he went onward. The shades would not help him, but nor would they turn him in. Up the stairs he climbed, until he came to the landing for the floor containing the Huntsman’s chambers. He crawled through the hallway, straining to keep his feet and hands from bumping the floor, his back killing him. His muscles were taut and the wounds of the prior whipping had reopened, but still he continued.

Theon could be and had been called many things over the cycles: lecherous, obnoxious, callous, ignorant and dumb as rocks. However if there was one trait that had endured the test of time, it was the fact that for better or worse, come hell or high water, he was a stubborn son of a bitch.

* * *

It didn’t surprise him to hear the sounds of sex coming from the Huntsman’s chamber.

The man had been insatiable and impossible to please of late. Theon didn’t even fight anymore on the nights where Ramsay entered his cell and threw him to the floor. He took the Huntsman into his arms and into his body, desperate to soothe the strained conditions they were both living in. If not apologies, if not pain, if not pleasure, what did it take? Yet Ramsay never left satisfied, no matter how many times Theon managed to get him off.

It brought a dark satisfaction to know that apparently no one else was managing to please him either.

“Say it again,” Ramsay growled over the steady thumping and creaking of wood upon a stone wall.

“I love you,” Myranda said breathily, pain just as apparent as pleasure in her voice. “I love you-“

Theon had to actively smother a scoff. The jealousy he’d felt upon walking in on them last winter still stung, but more than anything he felt disgust. He had been crawling and scrabbling around the entire fucking fortress all night and he was thoroughly, deeply fed up.

The sounds of hurried footsteps roused him from his thoughts. After a moment’s panic he darted into a little alcove, tucking himself in the shadows beneath a stone bench. The footsteps rushed right past him, followed by a banging on Ramsay’s door.

“My lord, we’re sorry to-“

“Oh, move!” The door swung open. “Ramsay, your boy’s gone and legged it!”

“He _what_!?”

There was a loud thud, followed by Myranda’s yelp of protest.

“He was there when we started work and gone by the time we were done,” Skinner said plainly. “He must have run off-”

“On what fucking feet!?” Ramsay demanded over the sound of rumpling clothing.

“Looks like he picked the lock.”

“ _With what fucking hands_!? The cunt can barely open _doors_ after the job I did on him!” The distinctive stomp of Ramsay’s boots raged down the hall, past Theon’s hiding place as he continued to right his clothes. “Send out the hounds. They can follow his scent to end of the world, and he won’t even make it off the grounds in the state he’s in.”

Then they rounded the corner and were gone. Theon waited several minutes for Myranda to finish dressing. Eventually she stormed past the alcove too, muttering curses under her breath. It was another few moments of careful listening before Theon felt brave enough to roll out of hiding.

He shuffled on inside the Huntsman’s now vacant bedchamber, nudging the door shut behind him. Immediately he released a heavy sigh of relief, breathing in the familiar scents of the room. With a weak groan of pain he lifted himself into Ramsay’s desk chair.

Using both hands he clutched the nearby pitcher and poured a stream of water into a silver bowl. For want of a rag he shed his ruined shirt and dipped it into the water, using it to set about cleaning his marred skin. His knees were throbbing and swollen when he worked down his trousers. Even once he wiped the dirt and soot away they remained dark with bleeding bruises. His shirt came away black and red as he continued to clumsily daub the worst of the damage.

By the time he heard the din of hellhounds racing out of the kennels, Theon was working the cork out of a wine bottle with his teeth.

* * *

It took a hilariously long amount of time for Ramsay to give up.

Theon had actually started to get worried. He wanted to make a point, not make the situation worse. Yet the hounds continued to run circles around the dread realm, barking and howling to each other across the forest. Occasionally Theon would hear the stampede of people searching the halls. No one checked the Huntsman’s bedroom.

At long last he finally heard a familiar shouting echo from down the hall. The exact nature was hard to make out, but Theon could infer the threats being made. His heart rate increased as those steps drew closer.

Ramsay blew into the room like a hurricane, slamming the door so hard behind him that the walls shook. With a wordless yell of rage he kicked the chest at the foot of the bed with a deafening crack. Theon watched, fascinated from the corner as Ramsay sank onto the bed with an angry sigh.

“… Rough day?”

The only reaction was the sudden rigid tension in Ramsay’s back. Theon shifted in his chair with a sigh. The time spent immobile had allowed all of his protesting muscles to lock up on him.

“I can relate,” he said casually, prodding the bruises on his shins. “Want to talk about it?”

It was like a spell being broken. The air swiftly evacuated Theon’s chest as he was tackled, chair and all, into the wall. Suddenly all he could see was the wide, arctic expanse of pale blue eyes. Moments stretched on as Ramsay drank in the sight of him, panting like a winded animal, breathing as if he wanted to inhale Theon in entirely. Then he scowled.

The sudden blow to Theon's jaw was possibly deserved.

“You little _shit_!” Ramsay’s hands were on him, clutching his arms so tight Theon worried for his aching bones. “Do you know what I’ve been doing the past several hours?”

“I do.”

A vicious slap, so hard it made his world flip. With a growl Ramsay manhandled Theon to the bed, quickly binding his wrists with the straps on the headboard.

“I’m a little surprised you still have these.”

“Shut your filthy mouth.”

Theon fidgeted uncomfortably. “I don’t want to be bound in the bed you were just fucking Myranda in.”

“I didn’t fuck her in the bed. I fucked her in that chair.”

Theon immediately recoiled. He’d been sitting there for _hours_. Gross.

Ramsay had him blanketed under his body, clutching Theon like a vice with the need to affirm that his prize was here, was real, and wasn’t going anywhere. The weight was smothering but Theon didn’t struggle. After so long in the dungeons he enjoyed the heat and the soft give of the mattress.

“You’re despicable,” Ramsay groused in his ear. “I should finally cut your damn arms and legs off and be done with it. See how you manage to slip away when you’re just a living hole for me to fuck.”

“You’d get bored,” Theon said easily, nuzzling into his neck. “Are you ready to talk to me now?”

Ramsay sank his teeth into his shoulder in response, teeth merciless as they drew blood.

“You stayed.” He licked a broad stripe across the wound. “Why.”

“We still have unfinished business.” Theon pressed his thigh between Ramsay’s legs, feeling the increasing hardness of his length. “You can’t just take me and hurt me and then shut me away like all the other unfortunates in that wretched dungeon.”

“I can do whatever I want.” Ramsay nipped his jaw. “You should have taken your chances and run. You humiliated me, _again_.”

“Well if we’re comparing humiliations, I had to fucking _crawl_ here. Do you know how long that took? Imagine the toll.”

There was a pause as Ramsay was no doubt picturing it in his mind. He pulled back just enough to examine the bruises marring Theon’s body.

“… You actually did, didn’t you? _Fuck_ , I wish I could have seen that.” He broke into snickers as he began to poke and explore the rest of Theon’s injuries. “Oh, that’s amazing. What did you do, roll down the halls?”

“A little bit.” Theon rolled his eyes as Ramsay devolved into full blown laughter, the bed shaking with it. “You weren’t listening to me! I need you to understand.”

He squeezed one of Ramsay’s legs between his thighs.

“I don’t want to run. I want to work this out with you. It just needs to be a conversation, alright? Otherwise we’re going to be stuck doing this shit to each other forever.”

The light in Ramsay’s eyes dimmed slightly.

“... I could have been so much worse to you,” he said quietly. “I’ve wanted to be, sometimes. But I wasn’t.”

“I know.”

“I could have taken every limb, your eyes, your tongue. I could have bathed you in acid. I could have burned you alive piece by piece. I could have made you eat your own toes.”

“I _know_.”

Ramsay pressed their foreheads together, pale eyes burning bright. “I’ve been good to you. I can be kind. I know that you know I can.”

Theon nodded carefully. He had leaned into the Huntsman’s touch more than once, desperate for any scraps of tenderness - or at least, any absence of cruelty. The Huntsman _could_ be kind.

“I hate the way you make me feel,” he said. “And I know it’s the same for you with me.”

Ramsay said nothing, gaze trailing to the side.

“Do you really want me?” Theon asked. “Or do you just want to hurt me?”

“I can do both.”

“Yes, but sometimes it feels like you actually _hate_ me instead of-”

“ _I can do both._ ”

Theon huffed. “Alright… alright.”

He could see in Ramsay’s eyes that the other man was still too emotionally charged to delve further into things. The scare, combined with the gesture of Theon’s decision to remain, had managed to balm his hurt feelings. That would have to be enough for now.

Ramsay sank into him, gaze stormy but still unmistakably fond. “I have to punish you, of course. That was a very naughty trick.”

“Aw, you don’t like my games?” Theon asked, brow raised. “That’s not very fair.”

“This is not the house for fairness.”

No, Theon thought as Ramsay began to shed his clothes. But he was more than used to the world not being fair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have more notes, but they will wait until next chapter (seeing as I have had to split Winter into two sections)
> 
> \- The dread realm is, as aforementioned, based primarily on Tartarus. It was the hellish underworld of Greek myth where souls were tormented, but it also functioned as a prison for those who committed crimes against the gods. Many titans were inmates there after the god-titan war.  
> > It is also based on Helheim, an underworld of Norse myth. It was a more or less a frosty purgatory, but there was a section of it reserved for the worst of the worst: Nastrond, a fortress deep under Yggdrasil (the world tree).
> 
> \- A shade is a spirit that resides in the underworld. The longer a restless ghost was dead, the less person-like it became, until it was just an incoherent shadow.


	5. Winter (Part 2)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter turned out way longer than expected, so I had to split winter AGAIN. Winter part 3 should be out in a few days.

When Theon was a child he could often be found in his mother’s lap, cradled in her arms as the water lapped at their feet.

She showed him that ocean was not just raging waves and vicious beasts, or wicked undertows ripping through dark abyss - it was the glint of moonlight on gentle waves, the swirl of seafoam and glowing algae on the sand; it was seals dancing through kelp and otters clutching their young. She called it the womb of the world. Nourishing and passionate, giving and sensual.

 _“You are as much a son of the sea as your brothers,”_ she would say while guiding his little hand through a tide pool, the ocean flowers and seastars forming a vibrant spectrum. _“When you are a man you will see: love and violence walk hand in hand.”_

A mother’s reassurance that Theon wished he’d taken as a warning.

He carried the sea in him even through the deep forests and frozen mountains of the mainland. Even when he found himself drawn further into the trees, lured by the call of something dark and forbidden. The woods were not so different from the ocean, in a way, especially so far north when the land itself could turn hostile and deadly at any moment. Yet there was still beauty to be found amidst the danger: a precious vulnerability in forest’s creatures.

One of Theon’s many bad habits was to form attachments to things he shouldn’t.

He mused on this as he lay in bed and watched the gentle rise and fall of Ramsay’s breathing. The Huntsman looked almost innocent with his face wiped clean of any cruel gaze or wicked smirk. His body was heavy and half-splayed atop Theon’s own and there was a softness to him in sleep that would never be found while he was awake.

Theon was trying out a new state of mind: one where he no longer shied from or immediately buried the thoughts he had once found too shameful to acknowledge. Like how nice it felt to be held so possessively, or how attractive he found the hard strength and smooth form of Ramsay’s body.

It was probably late in the day. They had both exhausted themselves with the adventures of the evening prior.

Theon shifted beneath the sheets only to have the arm around his waist instinctively tighten, somehow pulling him in even closer than before. Endearing, at least in the moment. He lightly ran his fingers down the bare planes of the Huntsman’s back, admiring the snow white skin. He doubted Ramsay had ever seen a sunny day in his life - not since he was mortal, at least. Not a likely patron of the beach either.

A shame. He’d probably look lovely in warm light.

“Enjoying yourself?”

Theon paused. Ramsay’s voice was thick and drowsy, eyes still closed and face half-buried into his pillow.

“I’m doing alright,” Theon said before resuming his exploration of Ramsay’s skin.

“By all means soak that in while you can. You have a lot to answer for,” Ramsay mumbled, grip flexing as Theon’s hands journeyed southward. “… and I suspect you’re not taking me seriously.”

“I always take you seriously,” Theon said as he shamelessly groped and squeezed. “Though I had hoped we could call it square.”

“Not on your life.”

“Mm.” Unsurprising. He lightly scraped his nails along Ramsay’s thigh. “Just don’t send me away again.”

At that Ramsay growled, shifting to levy his full weight across Theon’s body. He possessively wrapped himself around the weaker form beneath him and firmly kissed the purple swell of one of Theon’s bruises. The kiss quickly became a bite, sharp teeth sinking into the tender flesh.

“If I had my way, you know you’d never leave.”

* * *

The entirety of the Dread Realm breathed a sigh of relief when the Lord Huntsman finally descended from his chambers with a smile on his face. When last they saw him he had been a living calamity, a terror that promised to bring low all who crossed his path in the most painful way possible. Now he walked with a spring in his step, the Driftwood Prince heavily bruised and bare in his arms.

“Isn’t it a beautiful morning?” Ramsay didn’t wait for an answer, humming an upbeat tune as the blizzard raged and howled against the keep.

The castle staff watched in wonderment as their lord passed through the hall. The air was deathly still. When Ramsay did not turn, the fort’s residents all but raised arms in silent jubilation - even hells must have mercy, for the Huntsman’s mood had finally turned.

While some found the Prince’s recapture more sympathetic than others, all agreed that it was better for the torment of one to ease the suffering of many.

Theon resisted the urge to scoff. _You’re welcome._

He sighed and rest his head on Ramsay’s shoulder.

“Have you ever been to the sea?”

Ramsay did not break stride, only tossing him a single offhand glance. “I’ve seen it.”

“Hm.” Theon had also seen the Shivering Sea, but he had never gotten close. Never touched it.

“The ocean here is not like that of your islands,” Ramsay said. “The tide is weak. Ships freeze in the ports. Blue mists creep across the water to choke the life from mortal men, and even the merlings are more cruel than the western breeds your sister commands.”

“Many things seem colder and crueler out here.”

“You love it. Like a moth into flame, you are.” Ramsay smiled as if charmed. “And it's always good fun to see you burn.”

* * *

The Huntsman’s playroom was a familiar chamber, large with high ceilings supported by broad stone pillars. Saltires, racks, cages and devices of all kinds furnished the space. Theon wasn’t too discouraged at being back in a dungeon. So long as he was brought back to Ramsay’s bed once the games were done, it meant he was still in the man’s good graces.

“I love watching you bleed.”

Ramsay said it the way other men might share intimate poetry or sweet nothings: with fevered breath and stars in his eyes. Theon winced at every stinging swipe of the blade. It was far from the worst he’d endured, but Ramsay would feel cheated if not eliciting some type of reaction.

“I wager you say that to all your victims.” Theon shifted what little he could from his place on the rack, joints aching with his arms and legs pulled taut.

“I would never.” Ramsay watched with open fascination as ichor trickled down his skin. “And ‘victim’ is such a dirty word.”

“Dare I ask what word you would use in its stead?” Theon asked, grimacing at each drag of the blade splitting his skin.

“You’re my _lover_ of course,” Ramsay said warmly, finger toying with the fresh wound. “Ask anyone.”

“Most men express hate with more kindness than you showing love.”

From an outside observer the scene must have looked like a standard appointment of torture. Theon knew better. This was, in essence, the only way Ramsay was capable of having a real conversation. Any expression of emotional sincerity was only possible if balanced out by a blade in hand. The Huntsman always had to feel in control.

“Ah yes. I’m so very _unkind_ to you, aren’t I?” Ramsay teased the knife against Theon’s throat. “Not like your beloved North King.”

Theon stifled a sigh.

“I should not have said what I did,” he said carefully. “I only did it to hurt you.”

A disbelieving snort. “As if you ever could.”

“I am always at your mercy,” Theon continued stubbornly. “My affection is the only leverage I have. If I give myself to you I have nothing.”

No security, no protection, no power. Which of course was exactly what Ramsay wanted.

“That’s all you need. _I’m_ all you need.”

“You’d destroy me.” Theon grimaced at a particularly deep slice of the knife. “And our lives are not our own. If they were I might have surrendered long ago. As it is, people count on me.”

Ramsay snorted. “Let them burn for all I care. They can find someone else to do your chores.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“It could be. The fuck have they ever done for you?” Ramsay rolled his eyes. “You’re nothing but a burden to them, a tool. Poor Prince Theon. It’s pathetic. I’m the only one who really wants you, who truly sees you and knows you best. Tell me I’m wrong.”

They were almost chest to chest, his breath warm and sweet on Theon’s neck.

“Your sister keeps you out of guilt. The North King out of obligation. Everyone only ever uses you and throws you away.”

Theon bit his lip as he tried to avoid that frozen gaze. “That’s not true! My sister loves me-“

“But she doesn’t _understand_ you, does she?” Ramsay said with exaggerated sympathy. “She never has. You’re her weepy little brother, the one she’s always had to pick up and dust off. She wonders how you turned out this way and wishes you were different.”

Theon shook his head, eyes beginning to grow wet. “No. No, she-“

“Pities you. Of course she does. Who wouldn’t?” Ramsay gave him a patronizing pat on the head. “And then there’s the Great Wolf himself - I don’t wager you were ever good enough for him either. Oh, I know you had your childish fun and games once, but he’s the _king_ now. He was always going to outgrow you. Tell me, how many times has he looked at you with disappointment in his eyes?”

Theon was beginning to have a hard time breathing. He was running out of space, shrinking away into the rack only to have Ramsay push in ever closer.

“Robb lo-“

Ramsay violently buried his blade in the wood frame, just shy of Theon’s wrist.

“Do not say his name to me,” he snapped. “I am right _sick_ of hearing about how fucking perfect and good your sweet _Robb_ is, understand?”

He pressed a finger into one of the fresh cuts, causing Theon to nearly choke on his tongue as the vivid pain combined with the awful, wet feeling of the wound being toyed with.

“He wants you enough to keep you at his side, but not enough to _really_ make you his. Not enough to risk the scorn of his court. Is that what you want? To be the North King’s whore? A concubine slipping into his chambers after dark so his men don’t see?” Ramsay said, voice dangerously soft. “If I were him, the day you came crawling back after the war would have been the last day you saw the sky. I’d have taken you right then and there, in front of the entire fucking pantheon. I’d make you a hibernal god whether you wanted it or not.”

Theon wheezed in relief when Ramsay finally pulled away. It was clear the man would never believe in the purity of Robb’s intentions. He thought Theon too stupid to see the North King’s interest. Fine then.

“I don’t want Robb,” Theon said hoarsely. “I never have.”

Ramsay made a disbelieving noise but in silence invited him to continue.

“I was scared and alone and… Robb was kind. I wanted a family, a real one, and he was good to me when my brothers weren’t.”

His brothers had been lesser titans, more forces of nature than men. When they died his mother had pitched herself into the sea, dissolving into luminescence and seafoam. Half a family gone in one fell swoop.

“Kind Robb, good Robb. It must be so nice, everyone treating you like a fucking child.” Ramsay leaned against the rack’s frame, hands empty and sleeves rolled to his elbows. “Do you think they still would if they knew what I know? If they saw how much you can take and still get wet for me after?”

Theon felt himself turn pink.

“Come now, you used to be so liberal. You haven’t been bragging about our nights together to everyone that will hear? I’m hurt.” Without warning Ramsay cupped him hard between the legs with a warm, rough hand. “You could get wet for me right now, I bet.”

Theon squirmed. Even with his body marred with fresh bruises and lazily bleeding lacerations, he could still feel himself beginning to stir beneath the Huntsman’s palm.

“I know you like it. I know how good you feel when you’re at my feet,” Ramsay said gently. “It feels right, like it’s the only place you’ve ever truly belonged.”

“Rams-“

“I’ll take care of you,” Ramsay said, the words more like a command than an assurance. “You’ll never have to be anything but mine. You won’t have to worry about anything but pleasing me.”

“You are not always possible to please.”

“We all have bad days.”

“And what pleases you most is my suffering.”

“Because you suffer so beautifully,” Ramsay said, stroking him to hardness. “Look at you. You’re already mine, you just won’t admit it.”

“We’ve been down this road so many times,” Theon said, back arching in pleasure in spite of himself. “But if you want an oath from me, ah, we’ve got to negotiate.”

Ramsay scowled and immediately pulled his hand away. A whine escaped Theon’s throat as he reflexively stuttered his hips at the loss.

“Negotiate, he says.” Ramsay perched himself atop the nearby table. “Out of sheer curiosity, dare I ask what it is you want? Food, baths? You’ve always been such a vain creature.”

Theon frowned, head reeling with his cock still at half-mast. “That’d be nice, but my responsibilities are what come first. Any contract with you has to allow me to carry out my duties.”

 _You have to let me leave_ hovered silent and unpleasant between them.

“No. I refuse to believe that you’re that fucking irreplaceable. They can find someone else.”

“What exactly was your plan if I didn’t escape every Spring? My sister knows what you really do. By summertime Robb would come for me.”

“You think they scare me?”

Theon met Ramsay’s gaze and was surprised by frosty resolve he saw there. Bloody hell, they really _didn’t_. The Lord Huntsman had never made a secret of his hatred for the North King, but to be willing to make war?

“You would topple your own pantheon, collapse the barriers between worlds, declare war on my sister and cause the mass starvation of your land’s humans just to keep me.”

“You make it sound so dramatic,” Ramsay said, picking dried blood from under his fingernails. “It’s not all about you. I’d take most any excuse to tear them all apart, really.”

“That’s mad.” Theon swallowed. “You’d lose.”

“Perhaps.” Ramsay fixed him with a level stare. “Perhaps not.”

It was strange that even after all this time they could still learn new things about one another. Theon suddenly felt remarkably small on the rack, confronted with his expanded knowledge of just how far Ramsay could and would go.

Maybe he needed to reassess.

* * *

Theon knew that bartering with the Huntsman was never going to be an easy task. Even so, he had miscalculated Ramsay’s limits and the other man had dealt him an impossible bluff to call. He had to readjust his strategy.

In the meantime, Ramsay carried a smug air of victory after their first attempt at negotiation.

“See, isn’t this so much better?” He asked, oozing self-satisfaction. “Don’t you feel just at home?”

Theon ground his teeth together, muscles trembling and aching under the weight of Ramsay’s heels on his back. He was still stripped bare, forced to serve on all fours as an obscene footrest while the Huntsman lounged in his throne. Worst of all was the steel device that had been clamped around his bollocks; a sort of bar that clutched him tight and ran across the seat of his thighs. It locked him in position, with any attempt to stand made impossible by the agonizing pull on his sack.

Theon grunted, his already abused elbows and knees protesting at being forced to bear weight again. He was past the point of caring about who saw him in such a state.

“I _said,_ don’t you feel at _home_?”

The burden of one boot lifted from his back, only for Theon to immediately feel the pain of a leather heel pressing into his captured balls.

“Nng- _yes,_ my lord-!” Theon rubbed his forehead against the floor, tears welling in the corners of his eyes.

“Exactly. And home is where you belong. Why would you ever want to leave?”

“I don’t, hng, want to leave,” Theon said desperately. “I d-don’t have a choice.”

The boot became even more cruel, causing the room to tilt unevenly around him.

“Because you’re still preoccupied with matters that don’t concern you. I told you, when you’re mine all you need to worry about is pleasing me. Forget everything else.”

“You’re talking about risking war and mass death!”

“And you are assuming that King Robb and all the rest will think you’re worth fighting for,” Ramsay said, giving Theon’s bollocks a final nudge with the toe of his boot. “Let’s play a game. I call it, ‘does the North King really love you?’ Not _that_ much, certainly. That’s the difference between him and me when it comes down to it. I’m willing to burn the world for you and he’s not.”

“He… I…”

It was more or less what Theon had thought himself. Why else had he lied to Robb’s face?

“Now, what if I told him that I was keeping you because you didn’t _want_ to go back to your sister?” Ramsay mused. “I think he’d believe me, at least for a while. You and I are lovers after all, and your sister is a vicious harridan. It very well seems like she and the king are just waiting for the excuse to have at each other.”

Theon’s whole body went cold. Suddenly he was numb to the pain that had been his constant companion, but it brought him no relief.

“It would be so funny if they killed each other,” Ramsay said gleefully. “Maybe the world would deem you to blame. Maybe they’d all beg me to lock you away so you could never cause trouble again.”

Theon didn’t realize he was crying until he saw the tears splattering the tile beneath him. He knew he wasn’t worth it, but tensions between Yara and Robb were already so high that they’d lash out at each other on principle. If he didn’t come home his sister would go on the offensive. Robb’s patience had already worn so thin that he wouldn’t be forgiving, especially if from his perspective she was being overbearing and overprotective for no reason. By the time the truth came out, it could be too late.

Theon clenched his fists as much as he could with both thumbs gone. He refused to let anyone else die because of him.

“You’ll never keep me past spring and you know it,” he said, his voice more level than expected. “You can put me in a cage. You can even take all my limbs. Somehow, eventually, I _will_ get out.”

It was destiny, he could see it now. The same magic or power of fate that bound them together had made it so their eternal stalemate could never be broken by force. The Prince would never evade capture in winter; the Huntsman would never keep his quarry through spring.

“And once I get out,” Theon continued, “if what you say is true then I have no reason to stay in the mainland through autumn anymore. All those people will starve anyway if you keep me from my duty or spark war between the pantheons.”

Ramsay straightened, planting both feet firmly on the floor. “Are you _threatening_ me?”

Careful now. Theon took a steady breath.

“You want me to give you vows for a reason. You want me to be yours. I can do that,” he said, straining to keep his nerve. “I… I want to. But not at the expense of innocent lives or by breaking the peace.”

Silence.

“I can give you my autumns,” Theon offered. “You’d have to let me leave every now and then, but we could do it together. We could even stay in the overworld together.”

Another long pause.

“When you’re mine, you’ll be a hibernal. You won’t be the king’s hostage anymore,” Ramsay said, his voice empty of all emotion. “Your summers are mine to take as well.”

Theon grimaced. “That… that’s true. But if Robb summons me I have no choice but to respond.”

“Perhaps. But demanding a guest for an entire season would be unreasonable. And inviting you without your other half would be _rude_.”

Fuck. It rankled to imagine being shepherded like a new bride by her husband, barred from the company of men without a chaperone for fear of impropriety. He could already tell that getting time alone with Robb would be a task in itself.

Those were three seasons he’d be spending, in one form or other, at the Huntsman’s side.

“Spring is non-negotiable,” Theon said before Ramsay could get any ideas. “My sister knows everything, Ramsay. And besides, I have obligations in the islands too.”

“Oh please. What could they possibly need you for?”

“I’m…” Theon sighed. “I’m the patron god of salt wives now.”

Ramsay laughed loud and surprised. “I’m sorry. Come again?”

“You heard me the first time! And it’s actually really important to me, alright? I’m needed. Spring is marriage season, I have to be there for them.”

Ramsay slumped back into his seat, whole body shaking with laughter. “Patron of the… of course you are. Of _course_ you are. Fucking hell.”

“And don’t pretend that you aren’t secretly grateful for what my sister does,” Theon said, still feeling bold. “Every time she heals me, it means you get to hurt me again.”

“Hm.” Ramsay gave a leisurely stretch. “I suppose I _do_ appreciate the infinite number of fingers…”

Without warning Theon was kicked in the side, toppling with a yelp. His instinct to splay and right himself had him catching on the humbler, his bollocks still held in its bondage. Stars danced in his eyes as he curled tenderly on the floor, cupping himself around the steel confines in an attempt to rub away the pain.

Ramsay looked down on him, a looming shadow with glinting pale eyes. “But don’t be so _smug_ about it.”

Theon groaned. As if he’d ever been smug about anything towards the other man.

“You know, I’m still a little sour over what you did last winter,” Ramsay said in a deceptively offhand tone. “I had no idea you could be so spiteful.”

Theon froze, like prey afraid to make the wrong move.

“And it got me to thinking - that must have been the first time you’ve sucked me in ages. Fancy that.”

Theon shrank into the floor. Oral sex was something Ramsay only saw fit to risk when Theon was either deliriously broken or missing all his teeth. It was a point they only reached in the harshest, most sadistic of winters.

“It’s very unfair, you keeping that mouth of yours all to yourself,” Ramsay said, tracing Theon’s lips with his thumb. “So we’re going to try something different today.”

In his other hand, something that Theon almost mistook for a collar dangled from Ramsay’s fingers. Thin strips of leather with a buckle, connected by a large metal ring.

“Open up for me, sweetling.”

There was a struggle at first. Not a great struggle of course, because Theon was not foolish enough to bite down on the other man’s fingers even when his balls _weren’t_ in a vice. Eventually Ramsay was able to fight the ring into Theon’s mouth, locking his jaw open as the buckle was fastened behind his head.

“Now there’s a lovely sight.” Ramsay stuck his finger inside and teasingly rubbed at Theon’s tongue. “I’m sure it’s not very comfortable, but you’ll agree that there is a concerning lack of mutual trust in this relationship.”

Theon made a noise of protest as he was led forward by his collar. Still unable to stand in the humbler’s clutches, he could only crawl his way in between the Huntsman’s spread thighs. If able to speak he might have told Ramsay that he _hated_ him, that the man was a petty and insecure bastard who hurt others for fun and overcompensation. None of which were things Theon wanted to relate to.

Ramsay was undoing his breeches, easing them down just enough to expose his erection. He thumbed at the head, flushed and already glistening.

“Why the upset face? You were so excited to take me last winter.”

Theon’s mouth had begun to involuntarily water from its forced open position, saliva pooling beneath his tongue.

“There,” Ramsay brushed his tip along Theon’s bottom lip. “Look at you, drooling on my cock. You know you didn’t have to tie me down for it, dearest. You only ever had to _ask_.”

Theon glared up at him, every muscle stiff and protesting at the uncomfortable position - his back forced in a lewd arch to keep Ramsay’s cock within reach without straining too much on the unforgiving bondage. With defiance in his eyes he drew his tongue past the metal ring to lap at Ramsay’s slit.

He watched as Ramsay’s pupils expanded, swallowing up each icy blue iris.

“You’ve always been a slut.”

Theon had time for one last affronted look before thick fingers were tangling into his hair, forcing him down on Ramsay’s shaft.

There was nothing graceful or artful about it as Ramsay rode his mouth, the salty bitter taste washing his tongue as he salivated uncontrollably. At least he didn’t have to worry about watching his teeth as he choked and spluttered, the gag digging harshly into him.

For all of Ramsay’s haughty looks and sharp words, he was just a beast underneath. His tastes ran dark, sloppy and desperate.

“Keep looking at me like that,” Ramsay said roughly, grinding Theon’s face into his lap. “Like I’m all you see, like I’m the only one who makes you feel anything-“

Theon was looking at him like he’d like to commit murder, but maybe to Ramsay it was all the same. He beginning to gag, throat fluttering from the abuse as the thrusts came quicker and deeper, allowing him no space or time to breathe.

“Could stick anything in you like this. Could line up my boys and let them all take turns.” Ramsay’s nails scraped against Theon’s scalp. “You think I don’t see how they look at you? How much every last one of them wants a taste? They’ve been watching you all these years, you little tease. Maybe I should indulge them. Imagine, a pureblooded pelagic god servicing my whole keep.”

Theon’s eyes were beginning to water from discomfort and shame. Ramsay wouldn’t. Maybe in the past he would, in the early cycles when there was as much disdain as desire in his heart where Theon was concerned. But not anymore, surely? Ramsay might get off on it in the moment, watching his men ravage Theon’s body… but once it was done his jealousy would rain hell on them all.

When he finally came it was like a shot and without warning. Theon’s shout was muffled as his face was held flush to Ramsay’s crotch, nose pressed to soft skin and the dark hair that trailed down his navel.

Ramsay’s whole body relaxed with a contended sigh, hands petting Theon’s hair through the weak struggles to breathe and swallow.

“It’s always such a relief whenever we kiss and make up,” Ramsay said, hand still preventing Theon from pulling off. “What, done already? You kept me in your mouth _all night_ last time. I’m sure you’ll be happy to keep me warm until my day is done.”

Theon grunted, defeat sinking into his bones. It was going to be a long afternoon.

* * *

In the following days Theon found himself bound or chained in more positions and configurations than he thought possible. Ramsay seemed to find something comforting in seeing him immobile or hobbled, especially after the scare of an early escape. Theon still had not been given clothing.

He tried to comfort himself in the wake of what he had already promised, but the prospect of being in Ramsay’s possession almost full-time was daunting to say the least.

“You’ll pace yourself, won’t you?” Theon asked, rotating slowly in the suspended cage he’d been sealed in like a bird. A fire pit some two meters beneath him glowed dimly with warm coals.

“Huh?” Ramsay’s attention was on the damned soul he was flaying a few paces away. Theon was far from the only one brought into the playroom, though he was often made to either watch or hold a tray of implements as his master worked. “What’s that, dear?”

“I said, once we’re oath-bound you’ll want to pace yourself,” Theon insisted, wincing as his hanging cage swung and creaked with every movement. “I don’t want to run out of toes by autumn.”

“What a delicate princess you are.”

“It’s considered a hindrance to my duties if I can’t walk, Ramsay.”

The man didn’t even turn, pointedly focusing on his knifework.

“I don't want Robb to find out what you really do to me, and if you were smart you wouldn't either,” Theon said levelly. “I need you to keep any… marks non-visible until he goes to sleep.”

“So that means castration is still on the table then?”

Of course that would be his immediate thought.

“I’d rather you didn’t.”

“But by your own standards, it’s permissible by the contract.” Ramsay cast him a sidelong look. “Unless King Robb often expects to see your cock?”

“We go swimming together sometimes,” Theon admitted uneasily. “And there’s the hot springs-“

Ramsay grabbed a nearby torch and flung it into the fire pit, causing several coals to flare. Theon jumped, suddenly feeling uncomfortably warm.

“Not anymore you fucking don’t!” The fire reflected in the surface of Ramsay’s eyes, gleaming dangerously. “I’ve been hearing an awful lot of what _you_ want. What about me, then?”

Theon looked anxiously between Ramsay and the smoldering pit. “You?”

He hadn’t considered that Ramsay would have additional terms. He just wanted Theon to stay, and for the most part he was getting that wish.

“Obviously I expect you to be faithful to me. I don’t want you even _touching_ anyone else.”

“No touching at all isn’t reasonable,” Theon said, feeling the steel of his cage beginning to heat up. “But no sexual contact with others is something I can promise.”

Ramsay rolled his eyes at the word play. “You will also swear to never lie or withhold the truth from me. Mustn’t keep secrets, understand?”

Theon nodded with some reluctance. “Alright.”

“And once you’re mine, you’re _mine_. You’ll be as dutiful and obedient as one of your pretty salt brides. No more tricks,” Ramsay said with a sneer. “And if I want to fuck you everyday and from every which angle, that’s my right.”

“One you have already exercised with impunity, I thought.”

“Just making sure we’re on the same page.”

On the surface it all sounded rather standard. For a salt union, anyway. Ramsay would officially have all rights to him, including sexual liberties and dictation over Theon’s conduct. In exchange, he would exercise enough restraint to let Theon carry out his godly duties. Save for winter, of course, but winter had always been cruel that way.

“I don’t suppose _you’re_ under any obligation to be faithful or honest with me,” Theon said, failing to keep the bitterness from his tone.

“Do you want me to?” Ramsay asked, like the prospect amused him. “Of the two of us, I am not the nasty little sneak here.”

Theon didn’t deny it. Of all of Ramsay’s crimes, dishonesty was not his trade.

“I don’t want you fucking Myranda anymore.”

“That so?”

“I don’t know how you can be scornful over Robb, who is as my brother, when you’re still plowing _your_ childhood friend’s field and expecting me to care not.”

Ramsay shrugged airily. “Well I had no idea. It’s the first you’ve said anything on the matter.”

Theon scowled. “Didn’t realize I was free to speak on such things.”

The cage was starting to get worryingly hot. He wiped the sweat from the back of his neck. Meanwhile Ramsay’s catatonic victim had gone into mild spasms, the only sounds in the dungeon being that of desperate choking, fire crackling and the soft shearing of the blade.

“I don’t like that you keep seeing her when you already have me,” Theon said, forcing the words from his mouth. “It makes me feel…”

He just had to say it. The key to getting what he wanted from Ramsay, if ever, was to debase and humble himself as much as possible. _Say it_.

“It makes me feel unloved.”

The ministrations of the knife ceased. Ramsay slowly turned, brow raised and looking a hair’s breadth from laughing aloud. His eyes eagerly took in the sullen set of Theon’s features.

“… You’re pathetic.” Ramsay turned back to his work. “It’s cute. Fine then, I won’t fuck the wench. You’re tighter than she is anyway.”

Fortunately the heat Theon was steaming in was enough to hide his flush.

“You’re lucky I’m so sweet on you. I don’t often suffer jealousy,” Ramsay continued. “I own _you_ , remember. Not the other way around.”

“I’m not jealous,” Theon muttered. “It’s the principle of the thing.”

“Sure it is.”

He couldn’t help but suspect that Ramsay was lying, just a little bit. Theon had always been so otherwise careful to guard himself and to hide any hint that he reciprocated the Huntsman’s desires. It was an old point of contention between them. On top of that, Ramsay probably thought it was the funniest thing for a prince to feel threatened by a common mistress. ‘Bored by jealousy’ indeed.

“You go through all this trouble to get me here. Am I still not enough?”

Ramsay sighed heavily, loud and dramatic. “Oh for - it’s not about _you_ , you dim creature. When I want to fuck, I’ll fuck. That’s all. Don’t be such a woman about it.”

“Right. Fine.”

“You’re sulking.”

“I’m not!”

“You are. My back’s turned and I can feel it. Like when one of my dogs is lurking under the table and I won’t give it scraps. It’s an aura,” Ramsay said. “Is that what you are, puppy? A kicked dog I have to give pats and sweet words to?”

“You treat your dogs better than you treat me, if we’re being frank.”

“I’m sorry, you open your mouth to speak but all I hear is-“ Ramsay mimicked the sound of a dog’s whimpering. “What is it, boy? What are you trying to tell me?”

Theon huffed and looked away. Ramsay agreeing to restrain himself in any capacity was a significant victory and that much had been won. Beyond that, one could hardly ask a shadowcat to change its stripes.

“Oi!”

Theon jumped as his cage was rudely shaken, rattling him back and forth between the bars.

“If you’re done having a cry, I’d like to play with you now.” Ramsay unlocked the cage door and beckoned him forward. “Unless you want me to piss off and leave you to get broiled. That’s fine too.”

Everything wobbled dangerously as Theon shifted his weight, because of course Ramsay couldn’t just extinguish the fire pit and lower the cage like a sensible person. Ramsay caught him easily, cradling Theon’s naked form tightly against his chest.

“You’re warm,” he said with a nip to the neck. “Will you be this warm for me in the summertime?”

Theon shuddered at the rush of cool air that permeated the rest of the dungeon. He winced as Ramsay lay him down hard on a nearby table.

“What do you do in summer anyway?” Aside from spying, of course.

It was impossible to imagine Ramsay existing beyond snow covered mountains and overcast skies. The man simply did not belong in direct sunlight.

“Not much, I’ll be honest. It is by far the most boring of the seasons,” he said with a shrug. “Good hunting though.”

Theon wisely did not ask if that referred to beasts or women. He’d likely find out soon enough.

“Don’t be _jealous_ though,” Ramsay laughed airily as he positioned Theon’s legs over his shoulders. Strong fingers wrapped around his throat. “You’ll always be my favorite hunt.”

* * *

One positive, if it could be called that, to being injured so early in winter was that it meant the wounds were more or less healed by midseason. The stitches had long been removed from where Theon’s thumbs had been amputated and his feet were finally able enough to support his weight.

Ramsay still insisted on carrying or dragging him everywhere. The man had been growing increasingly paranoid, refusing to allow Theon out of eyeshot or arm’s reach for more than a few minutes at a time. Until the deal was sealed he seemed caught between boyish excitement and a strong reluctance to raise his hopes. Ramsay’s way of coping was, as ever, to be as overbearing as possible.

“Can’t have you slipping away,” he had drawled by way of explanation as he leaned in the doorway to watch Theon take a piss. “Not when we’re finally getting somewhere.”

Because once oaths were made, that was it. There would be no running ever again.

They had started to put the terms down in writing. Whereas most marriages involved a contract negotiating wealth and property, theirs involved basic rights and protections. Theon tried his best to close any loopholes he found but frankly neither he nor Ramsay had the mind for such minutiae.

So long as he could continue to protect the salt brides and Northern prey, that was what mattered. Protecting the shaky peace between the pantheons was what mattered. Yara was still going to throw such a fit when she found out… Theon was already trying to think of what he’d say to keep her from declaring war on the spot.

 _It was for the best, he swore to treat me better,_ Theon practiced in his mind.

Not that it’d do much good if he still showed up every spring in desperate need of being reborn. Yara wouldn’t care about how clean or well-fed Theon was if he was still missing most of his flesh.

_I just couldn’t do it anymore._

The running, the hiding, the lies, the endless game of cat and mouse. Never knowing when the dam was going to break, or how he was going to get out of it this time. Theon was sick of the cycle, the rut. He wanted to settle. He wanted to lie down, secure in the knowledge that no one else would die or suffer for it.

Now it was happening. The Driftwood Prince and the Lord Huntsman, after all these years. The enormity of it still hadn’t quite sunk in. It clearly hadn’t for Ramsay either.

It took weeks before Theon finally managed to get some space to breathe.

At long last the Dread Lord finally decided that his son needed to stop dragging his feet in the keep and attend to his other winter duties. As sovereign over predators and monsters, the Lord Huntsman often descended to rungs of the lower realms that Theon had never seen.

Ramsay liked to scare him with the stories sometimes.

“It is the purest darkness, cold and damp you can imagine - nothing down there has ever seen sunlight. The festering marshes, rivers of blood, the stench of rotting meat… and the _sounds_. You’ve never heard such infernal creatures screeching and snapping from all sides.” Ramsay pet Theon’s hair and stroked his jaw. “But don’t fret. Those abominations have learned to fear me, just as they fear my father. They don’t act out anymore, but every now and then I have to go down and remind them why.”

The dread realm was the last bastion. The bottleneck passage separating the realms of gods and men from the lawless creatures that wriggled through the soil of the world tree’s roots.

“Maybe I ought to take you once we’re bound,” Ramsay said with a mean laugh. “They don’t understand things such as oaths or unions down there, but they’ll get the idea clear enough once you’re bent over - fighting and fucking is really all they do. Shall I show them what a lovely mate their lord has taken? I wager they’ve never seen something as pretty as you before.”

Theon shuddered to even think of it. Naked and helpless in the dregs of existence itself, with innumerable rabid eyes feasting upon him.

“You’re right. My good, _dutiful_ bride is far too delicate for such a place.” Ramsay said cheerily. “So I suppose you’ll just have to wait and behave in the meanwhile.”

* * *

Ramsay left with strict instructions that Theon never be out of sight for even a moment. The result was a rather uncomfortable evening spent in chains on the floor while the hunting party played dice and cards by the fire. He could feel their eyes on him. He knew they were remembering the many debasements Ramsay had performed on him in various common spaces. Every now and then a taunt or jeer was thrown his way, but no one touched him.

One got the sense that they were all still especially spooked by how angry Ramsay had gotten during the recent false alarm.

Theon felt the chill in the air and the ripple through the fire in lieu of footsteps; when he looked up he saw Locke standing in the doorway, sword at his hip and cloak billowing from his shoulders.

“I’ll be taking the dog from here, lads,” he said smoothly, beckoning Theon forward with a gloved hand.

The men exchanged cautious looks. “Lord Ramsay said-“

“Ramsay’s word is not the final arbiter here, if you’ll recall.”

Immediately the room’s atmosphere changed. The men all instantly sobered and seemed to make themselves just the slightest bit smaller. Locke motioned at Theon impatiently.

“You can walk?”

“Slowly.”

“If you can walk slow in comfort, you can walk quick in pain. The latter suits me better.” Locke hauled Theon foreword by his sleeve, heedless of the chains rattling in their wake. “My master is no man to keep waiting.”

Immediately Theon’s breathing caught. Locke’s true master was scarcely a man at all.

Theon had met the Dread Lord before, innumerable years ago. The titan had played both sides in the great war, which was likely why he was one of the few of his kind left alive. Though there was no love nor trust between him and the North King, the bottleneck pass between the realms of man and monsters could not be left unattended. In exchange for his life the titan was imprisoned in his own realm, tasked with forever keeping the gates between earth and hell.

He embodied a tier of the dread realm that Theon had never had to visit.

The underworld was a vast place. At its borders was the great expanse of the dark woods, the forest of lost souls. The Dreadfort was the crown at its center, standing sentinel over the underground labyrinth of dungeons and great caverns of torment. That was as far as Theon had ever gone, but he knew there was more: tunnels and caves and burrowing rivers that flowed to places that no human soul, however damned, had ever been.

At the base of it all were the Red Gates, the sole barricade between their frosty hell and the mad realm of monsters. It was there that the Dread Lord kept his watch.

As they descended further into the dark Theon began to recall with horribly clarity why he had always hated to be in his father’s presence, or even in old Ned’s. Titans had a way of making even the gods feel small. Titans were raw, primal beings, greater than their physical forms implied. The King of the Deep had not only ruled over the dark sea, he _was_ the sea. Ned was not only the sovereign of the North, the North itself was his own body.

Just so, as Theon felt the air grow thin and the cold pressing in around him, he could feel the Dread Lord’s power. These stone walls laced with frost were his flesh, these rivers wriggling with leeches were his veins. As their little boat rode ever further down the tunnels, Theon swore he could feel the cave walls moving with a great creature’s breathing.

He couldn’t help but feel a sick sort of gratitude that most of the titans were dead. Surely the world was too small for them.

The first thing Theon saw when they emerged from the cave river’s mouth were the gates themselves. Impossibly tall and red as dried blood, they hummed with an energy Theon could feel resonating in his bones.

He stepped out of the boat on onto the stony shore without prompting. He found himself drawn to the gates by a magnetism he couldn’t explain, their immense height towering ever more above him as he grew closer.

“Ramsay’s gone through there?” He asked, his voice somehow so loud in the quiet yet so easily swallowed up by the thrumming power around him.

“It’s where he belongs.”

Theon jumped at the cool voice coming from too close behind him. He spun about, and as he did so the world around him whirled in a disorienting blur. When it settled he was no longer standing at the foot of the Red Gates, on a black stony shore with an icy river winding past.

He was in a great hall of red marble and white bone, standing before a pale man with all-too-familiar ice blue eyes.

“Prince Theon. It has been a while.”

_Not long enough._

“My lord,” Theon returned, clenching and unclenching his hands to hide their tremors.

“You have a different bearing about you,” Roose said, looking him over with nominal interest. “Here I thought my son would never learn restraint.”

Theon didn’t know what to say. It was like being in the room with a beast. He was unsure if it was safe to even move, let alone make a sound.

“As I was saying, your concern for him is misplaced. Where Ramsay has gone, I assure you he feels quite at home,” Roose continued. “I cast him out once, you know. After his brother. I tasked him with surviving beyond the gates for a full year. I am no kinslayer you see, but I admit I did not expect him to succeed.”

“… Yet he did.”

“By the time I reopened the gates he had already declared himself king.” Roose was too dignified to roll his eyes, but his tone spoke clearly enough. “He had hellhounds toddling about his feet like common pups. A cape of a dozen different skins was around his shoulders and a crown of teeth on his brow, the ridiculous boy.”

Roose shook his head. Though it was hard to say, there was something like amusement in his eyes.

“What could I do but keep my word? He had proven himself and shown his worth. Even a beast can be trained and made useful, and he was mine. His appetites were strong and inconvenient but manageable.” Roose met his gaze like a punch to the gut. “And then came you.”

Theon tried to swallow but his throat was too dry. He coughed weakly. “Me, my lord?”

“You, I did not anticipate. A wayward pelagic god of pleasure. A spoiled hostage who strayed too far into the woods. I thought it just another one of his games and I waited - as did you, I expect - for him to tire of it.”

Theon kept his eyes low. He knew how this part of the story went.

“He wants you more than he fears me,” Roose said, sounding only slightly annoyed. “I find this… vexing.”

“Why am I here, my lord?”

Roose looked at him with dull congeniality. “My men have told me the good news. It seems you and my son have finally come to terms.”

“… Oh.”

“It is something of a relief. He was quite the nightmare this cycle. Hopefully with this weakness under control, he will be all the more productive.”

“I have no control over what Ramsay does,” Theon said uneasily. “You can’t hold me responsible for him.”

“I know better than anyone the burden of managing my son,” Roose said with a dismissive wave. “Though you underestimate your influence, perhaps that is for the best. You are not known for being the most… committed in your allegiances.”

Theon spluttered, caught between shame and offense. Of course there were no excuses to be made. There was a special corner of the dread realm reserved for oath breakers. Perhaps Theon truly belonged in this awful place after all.

“No need to look so insulted. The divided loyalties of the Driftwood Prince are ingrained in our history. Surely enough gods and men alike have died for them.” The Dread Lord’s eyes looked straight to the heart of him, chilling his soul. “What is it about you, Prince Theon? Of all the pieces on the board you are weak at best, perhaps the most discarded and detained - and yet for your love so much blood has been spilt.”

“I don’t know what you would have me say.”

“What you have to say is not relevant, if it ever was.” Roose gave him on final, piercing look. “He’s yours now. Do you understand what that means?”

Theon felt frozen in place, helpless and confused.

Roose turned from him. “I suppose we’ll see. Best of luck to you, prince. I won’t patronize you with congratulations.”

There was suddenly a whirl of color and cold, and soon the Dread Lord’s hall was just a memory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part 3 of winter should be out this week! For now, here be this portion’s notes:
> 
> \- Various classic mythologies have some form of multiverse theory, with several different dimensional realms (the realm of the fae, the realm of the frost giants, the realm of the dwarves, etc). In this setting, once Robb goes to sleep the barriers between worlds become permeable. While Jon physically fights back the White Walkers/Others from invading through one border, Ramsay and his father are at another border, keeping order amongst the monsters through forceful leadership.
> 
> \- Most mythologies had several different underworlds. The Greeks had Elysium (heaven), Asphodel (purgatory), Tartarus (hell), and Erebus (the void). The Norse also had multiple afterlives; Helheim was a dark and cold underworld, and at its depths was the fortress Nastrond. It sat deep beneath the world tree and was where murderers, adulterers, and oath-breakers were tormented. It was a hall made of serpents, where venom dripped from the ceiling and men were ravaged by beasts.
> 
> \- The worst part about Nastrond was that prisoners were in the clutches of Nidhogg, a dragon-serpent imprisoned by the roots of the world tree. A horrifying monster who feeds on its prisoners, from his own prison Nidhogg communicates with the eagle sat atop the World Tree, with the squirrel Ratatoskr carrying messages between them. The Dread Lord aka Roose is based in part on Nidhogg, in part on the titan Tartarus, and in part on the titan Atlas (who was sentenced by Zeus to forever hold up the sky so that he couldn’t overthrow Olympus).
> 
> \- For Theon's status I was channeling some mild Helen of Troy vibes. Helen was the wife of a Spartan king but was “given” to Prince Paris of Troy by the goddess Aphrodite. Thus began the war between Sparta and Troy, in which the gods all took sides. Helen is oft blamed for it or jokes are made about ‘all this fuss for a pretty face’, but the politics were more complicated (and it’s unclear if Helen eloped with Paris or was actually abducted by him). And ironically, despite the war being “for” Helen, she isn't an agent in the conflict and is reduced to little more than an object by all the people fighting over her. I couldn’t help but feel like Theon (who is similarly not a major player despite being a point of such contention for people who are) being divided between Yara, Robb and Ramsay - who care about him in their own ways, but value him somewhat dubiously - had a similar tone.


	6. Winter (Part 3)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this took longer than I thought. I'm juggling a few projects atm (including a gift fic that will be dropping soon), but here we are at last.

Theon was no stranger to self-pity. Many a night he had stared into the darkness, his mind full of ‘ _why me_ ’s and _‘how did this happen’_ s. He knew that for all his sins he deserved to be punished, but surely there were so many others who had done worse for less. And of all the ways to serve his penance, was he really so awful as to have earned the Huntsman?

More than anything else, he wondered when pure torment and cruelty had bled into something else. How had it all gotten so personal? When had Theon started to respond to the attention? Was it just an illness of his mind, springing forth as a means of shielding himself, or something more? Perhaps none of it mattered. Theon had already resigned himself to being at least halfway mad. He was giving in, but at least no one would be going down with him. With the Dread Lord’s… what, approval? Suddenly it all felt so much more real.

Ramsay returned that night, a cold flush to his face and a spark in his eyes that meant he’d recently gotten to kill something. Theon quickly moved to divest him of armor and clothes, movements automatic and proprietary.

“It was just a night in with the boys,” Ramsay said, annoyed that Theon could be so rattled when he wasn’t the direct cause. “What’s befallen you _this_ time?”

Theon fumbled in his task, which he was still prone to do even after getting used to the lack of thumbs.

“Your father summoned me.”

Ramsay twitched. The language of his body suddenly went rigid.

“He… what the hell would he want to talk to _you_ for?” ‘Without me’ was clearly lingering on the back of his tongue.

“I think,” Theon cleared his dry throat. “he’s given us his blessing.”

Several moments passed as Ramsay absorbed this information. Theon had never spared much thought as to what the Dread Lord must have thought of his son’s ‘arrangement’. One got the sense that the Dread Lord found the whole affair distasteful, but not worth concerning himself with so long as Ramsay did his job.

“His blessing,” Ramsay repeated, his brow set. After a moment he batted Theon away with a snort that sounded only slightly contrived. “Nosy old man. As if I need his approval.”

Theon didn’t correct him.

“I suppose it’s more convenient if he doesn’t try to interfere,” Ramsay said airily, motioning for Theon to kneel down and unlace his boots. “One less thing to worry about.”

Beneath the cool affect Theon could sense Ramsay’s mind whirring with excitement. The Huntsman was not a patient man. As the main deterrent to following his impulses had always been his father’s disapproval, once given the Dread Lord’s consent there was simply nothing to stop him.

“Right. Speaking of, maybe we could talk about-“

“Listen to you, carrying on.” Ramsay kicked Theon over before toeing his own way out of the unlaced boots. “Haven’t we talked enough?”

“Not really. You barely heard me out last time.”

Ramsay had already begun to barrel through their attempts at negotiation. His answers were increasingly curt and snappy: no, Theon could not visit his sister throughout the year. No, he could not send or receive letters without Ramsay reading them first. No, he could not have a room of his own in the keep.

“You are taking shape to be a very high-maintenance husband,” Theon said dryly.

Ramsay ignored him.

“My mind’s made up. You will sleep in my bed or at my hearth. Or in a box, if you displease me,” he said with increasing enthusiasm. “You’ll call me Lord Husband, especially when others will hear. If anyone asks something of you, you will tell them that you’ll need consult with me first. You’ll wear my colors and symbols too, so everyone will know I’m the man of the union.”

These were sounding less like demands and more like Ramsay illustrating a fantasy to stroke himself to later. His eyes were star-bright and Theon could already see him getting hard under his clothes.

“Seems unnecessary.”

The fact that he would be joining Ramsay’s pantheon and not the other way around made it clear enough. Theon wasn’t sure if he ought to feel a little offended that no one, not even Robb, even considered any alternative.

Ramsay cuffed his ear. “No talking back, either. You and I must always stand in agreement.”

“You mean _I_ must always agree with _you_.”

“That’s what I said.”

Theon smothered a sigh. It was flattering, in the bittersweet way the Huntsman’s interest had always been, that Ramsay was so excited. That was promising, wasn’t it? Men were not usually so eager to be bound. Even if the two of them were not truly to be “wed” in the manner of man and woman, the technicality was negligible. They were swearing oaths of fidelity and ownership, with Theon being taken into the Huntsman’s house. Even children were not even an impossibility someday if they got creative. What more did a marriage make?

“It’s all taking shape now.” Ramsay pushed him down on the bed and climbed atop him, straddling Theon’s waist. “I’ve won _._ I’m the one who’s finally tamed the pelagic traitor who caused so much trouble.”

“You’ve caused just as much as I ever -“

Ramsay clapped a hand over Theon’s mouth.

“All your life everyone’s been trying to claim your loyalty, trying to shape you for their own gains and interests, and you’ve never been able to commit. Until me.” Ramsay’s thighs were heavy, like they could crush Theon’s hips between them. “It’s taken _years_ , you vile bitch, but I finally caught you.”

“And?” Theon asked breathily, looking up at him with eyes that probably showed too much. “Now that the chase is over, what next?”

They were heading into completely new territory. There was simply no guarantee that Ramsay wouldn’t lose interest now that his game was through. How long until he got bored? How long until he found himself a new sport?

Ramsay snorted at the weakness on display. “It’s a glad thing that I don’t want you for your wits.”

“I’m being serious. If it was just the hunt you were after… I need to know that you won’t lose interest and discard me once it’s done. I can be your enemy, or your prisoner, or your dog, but I can’t - I can’t be _nothing,_ understand? I can’t endure giving you everything just to be nothing to you,” Theon said, looking anywhere but Ramsay’s face. “Breaking my body and even my mind is one matter but-“

_If you take my heart from me just to break it, it’s worse. It’s so much worse._

When he finally dared meet Ramsay’s eyes the other man had the audacity to look halfway _bored._

“Fucking hell you are depressing.” Ramsay shook his head, amusement palpable. “How do you actually manage, carrying on day by day like that? You miserable cunt.”

“I’m baring my soul and all you have for me are insults.”

“Well what would you have instead, flowers and wine? You want me to hold your hand and a recite a poem about how pretty your eyes are?” Ramsay playfully slapped him. “Pull yourself together. You’re not going to catch me bending over backwards to accommodate your insecurities. There’s no creature on hell or earth with a spine so flexible.”

Ramsay inelegantly gripped Theon’s face, fingers squeezing into the hollows of his cheeks.

“You know full well that if I could stop giving a fuck about you, it’d have spared us both a lot of trouble. So quit fishing for compliments.” His nails dug red crescents into Theon’s jaw. “Nothing is ‘ _done_ ’, prince. We’re just getting started.”

Theon allowed himself to be pressed back into the bed, and against his better judgement he did feel strangely reassured.

* * *

Life in the dread realm already ran more on nightmare logic than anything rational, but the days took on an especially surreal quality from that point. Theon felt rather like he was being held underwater - the world moving around him, but muffled and disconnected.

Everyone seemed to know that the Dread Lord had given his seal of approval onto the proceedings. In doing so what had merely been another of Ramsay’s feral games suddenly had weight, a certain solemn legitimacy. This was happening, and it was real. The walls closed in tighter and tighter and Theon found himself repeating assurances that this was what he’d wanted and aimed for: sacrificing his liberty for peace and security.

It was still a little hard to keep his nerve when everyone was looking at him so intently. He could see them openly wondering if the prince had lost his mind. Some were spreading rumors that it was all an elaborate new trick to escape, while others whispered that he must have been a depraved pervert that enjoyed torture the whole time.

_ “Here’s hoping that Ramsay will get easier to deal with once he has his pet under lock and key.” _

_ “Keep dreaming. There’s no changing the Huntsman’s nature - the Prince has dug his own grave.” _

As Ramsay continued to drag Theon from place to place around the Dreadfort old memories began to bubble to the surface: there was the alcove where he’d been once fucked into the wall for anyone to see. There was the stone tile he’d had his head bashed against for struggling. There was the fire poker Ramsay had once used to gouge out his eye. Theon had shed blood in every chamber and baptized each hall with his tears. He knew every brick and pane of the Dreadfort, inside and out.

Those first few winters had been tough times. The Huntsman had been pure bloodlust, as well as lust of the more general kind, with no understanding between them. They had not yet come to learn each other’s minds and moods, nor all the ways to navigate and handle the other. It had been a wholly physical relationship of carnal hungers and torment; more cruel but also all the more simple for it.

Where would they be now if all those pesky emotions hadn’t gotten involved? If Ramsay’s appetites had been satisfied by a winter or two of trauma before his attention moved on to some other poor victim?

Well. No point in speculating now.

The weight of what they were doing was not hitting Ramsay the way it was hitting Theon. The Huntsman was acting like he was at last making the final payment on some long-awaited property. He continued to keep Theon at his side, talking more to himself. He spoke of all the things they would do together in summer and autumn, of the places they’d go and the gory festivals or rituals Theon would get to spectate. Ramsay spoke of the cults and followers that would finally witness the Driftwood Prince’s submission in person.

“It’s well overdue, don’t you think? Now they’ll get to actually see how well-trained and dutiful you are in attending to your lord.”

Ramsay had kept Theon up all night with his various plans and imaginings, as well as the arousal the former two repeatedly ignited in him.

“Have you really no concerns at all?” Theon asked, cuffed to a familiar dungeon chair.

“Concerns?” Ramsay echoed as he shined his blades. “About what?”

For a moment there were no words.

“Wha- about everything! You and I are about to be shackled together for all eternity!” Theon spluttered.

Their names intertwined. Their identities as gods forever linked.

“Your fights will be mine and mine will be yours. Neither of us will ever be able to give ourselves to another.”

“First of all, ’shackled’? That is not a healthy way to be talking about our nuptials,” Ramsay said, judging the skin of Theon’s upper arm, just below the shoulder. “Second, who the fuck else are you thinking of pledging to?”

“No one! That’s not the point!” Theon grimaced as Ramsay began to trace a large ‘X’ into him with a thin, straight blade. “The point is that once this is done, everything could change and there will be no turning back.”

“Oh I see. You’re getting cold feet,” Ramsay’s eyes narrowed. “The Driftwood Prince’s infamous commitment issues rearing its ugly head, hm? I might’ve known.”

“That’s not fair.”

“Tell me, did you feel the same way when the North King asked for your fealty? Or your family? Is this just what you do?” Ramsay gripped the hair at the nape of Theon’s neck, pulling harshly to expose the long arc of his throat. “Because make no mistake, I won’t suffer betrayal from the likes of you, prince. Cross me and I will make a war this world as never _seen_. And you’ll be sure to have a royal view.”

“I’m not getting cold feet,” Theon said roughly. “I’m just nervous, alright? It is a completely normal, understandable feeling to have!”

Ramsay released him with a huff before jamming a rag between his teeth to bite. “Nervous. Like a shivering maiden? Fucking hell. You know the halls and men of this fort better than your own sister’s.”

Theon spat the rag out. “Maybe that’s _why_ I’m nervous.”

Ramsay irritably shoved the rag back in, deep enough to make Theon gag. Then he placed the flaying knife against the bleeding outline he’d traced. The time for talking was done.

They both had their points. There was no denying that Theon was incredibly well-versed with the dread realm: he knew how it operated and he knew all the entities that resided within. It was a funny thing, to have such familiarity with people that you disliked so thoroughly, but he had felt the eyes and hands of the hunting party on him too often to be strangers.

Could Theon even name all of Yara’s inner circle, or more than half of Robb’s royal council? Let alone the full staff of their castles. Theon didn’t know what that meant or said about him, or what it suggested about where his home truly was.

It was easy to push those thoughts from his mind as Ramsay began to peel the outer layers of skin away. Everything was washed away by the familiar pain of a flaying.

* * *

The night before the ceremony felt like the dawning of a new age. The Driftwood Prince had somehow lived to see a few of those, so he liked to think he wasn’t being too dramatic.

Ramsay had never been the sort to care much for convention, but there was one tradition Theon should have known he would never pass up: the ritual abduction was usually carried out in good fun as a playful callback to less civilized times when the whole land was nothing more than roving tribes, making war and stealing women and calling it marriage.

“It’ll be just like the night we met,” Ramsay said warmly, already wearing his hunting kit as Theon was stripped down to his smallclothes. “Isn’t that romantic?”

“The night we met you shot me in the leg.”

“I grazed you.”

“You grazed me and then you shot me in the leg,” Theon said flatly. “It did not feel very romantic. Especially when at the time I had no idea who you were or what you wanted.”

“Whinge, whinge, whinge. Is this how it’ll be? I’ll have you in a scold’s bridle before I live with a nag of a wife.”

“I would prefer that to the gag you fucked me through.”

“Don’t jape. That sweet tonguework of yours is all that saves it from being cut out.” Ramsay tossed a folded square of white clothing into Theon’s chest. “On with it, then.”

The fabric was light and airy and would provide no protection to the winter outside the keep’s walls. Theon noticed that no shoes had been offered either. It was a little funny, all things considered, that he was being told to flee from the fort. However without an element of surprise or someone waiting for him on the other side, they both knew he’d never outrun the hellhounds. The prince’s escapes had always relied on stealth, or on him otherwise outsmarting his jailor.

Theon unfolded the clothing and his scowl deepened. He opened his mouth, closed it, and fixed Ramsay with an offended look that said more than words could.

“What? It’s _traditional._ ”

“There’s nothing traditional about any of this.”

The dress was little more than a linen shift, a soft white chemise that would be indecent for a lady to be seen in without additional layers.

“Well you didn’t think I was going to give you your cloak and boots and let you run off into the night, did you?” Ramsay pecked him on the cheek. “Get yourself sorted. I’ll try and catch you quick, so you don’t lose too many toes by sunrise.”

A firm grip stopped Theon from pulling away, fingers digging into his arm.

“But not _too_ quick, understand? It has to be a chase worth having.”

They turned Theon loose in the middle of a snowfall, fat flakes twirling from the sky and wind kicking sharp plumes of ice dust. He didn’t know how or why he had expected any more than another cruel prank. Shadowcats and unchanging stripes indeed.

The boys of the hunting party were as insufferable as expected, looking at him with disdain and lust and bad humor all wrapped together.

“Not the prettiest lady you’ve ever chased,” Skinner said, giving him the once-over. “Doubt what’s under the skirts’ll make up for it.”

“Could check. You got the matching drawers down there, princess?”

The boys heckled and laughed as Theon slapped Damon’s hand away. Then Ramsay raised his hand and they all fell silent.

“You know this game, pet. I’ll give you a little head start and you try to give me a good sport.” He patted the side of the large hellhound, the beast panting a steady stream of hot mist into the frigid air. “It’s only right that this courtship end how it started.”

The horn pierced the silence like a thunderclap, sparking Theon to action. The howling winds drowned out the fading jeers of the hunting party and distant wails of trapped souls. He fought his way through the snow, counting his breaths as a way to mind the time. He had made many escapes from the dread realm and he felt reasonably confident in navigating the lost woods, even under such horrid conditions.

In the current state of things Ramsay would grant him a decent grace period before giving chase. With the weather slowing Theon down and leaving distinctive tracks in his wake, a strong head start was the only way to make a hunt worthwhile. It was knowledge that he had to use to his advantage.

Theon knew how to maintain his course, to hug the river and keep the forest from tricking him or turning him around. His feet were numb to the point that he could no longer feel the soreness of his mostly healed, but still aching injuries. The recently flayed skin of his arm was hot under the bandages and the dress was wet with melted snow from the waist down.

Time condensed, but it must have been a significant passage. The next faraway bleat of the horn, followed by the howling of the hellhounds, gave him a second wind.

* * *

It must have been hours later when he heard the panting of a hellhound beyond the brush, trampling over shrubbage somewhere parallel to him. A split second later a familiar beast was toppling him to the ground, rolling them both through the snow. Theon threw his hands up to protect his face from the onslaught of sloppy licks and hot breath. Kyra was making playful little chuffing noises, tail wagging hard.

Theon helplessly pat her face before ruffling the fur about her heavy collar.

“Good girl,” he said, injecting as much enthusiasm as he could. “Very good.”

She barked happily and allowed him to nudge her weight from his chest. Perhaps one of Ramsay’s greater mistakes was allowing the hellhounds to love Theon as much as they did. In Kyra’s mind their hunts little more than another harmless game of chase or fetch. Master treated him as a dog, so he must be a dog, and none of the pack would _ever_ betray their Master.

Kyra had always been the fastest but the other hellhounds, and with them the Huntsman, would be close behind. Theon could have just stopped there. He’d made respectable ground, even if it was due entirely to the fact that this was a run he’d made so many years in a row now. Playtime was winding down and yet something called Theon forward. Maybe he’d go just a bit further, give Ramsay another little scare as punishment for underestimating him again. He pressed on, even if only to keep the blood hot in his veins and protect him from the chill.

Theon felt it in his blood when he passed the threshold of the dread realm. It was always like waking from a dream or rising from underwater - suddenly the world shifted into startling clarity, the colors less vibrant but more grounded. The snow continued to fall, but the air was not as sharp nor cruel in the overworld. He knew all the places in the realm where the veil was thinnest.

Kyra circled and attempted to use her body to corral him. The hellhounds were too soft on him to use outright force, so she tried to stop him instead by grabbing the hem of his dress between her teeth. After the night’s adventure, the garment was thoroughly soaked and practically translucent. Theon decided he was sick of the thing and shed it entirely, leaving him on the snowy bluffs in mere socks and smallclothes. He’d rather marry Ramsay naked than trussed up as a joke.

The fading urgency of the chase was leaving him cold, sore and tired. His pace greatly slowed, which seemed to please his canine chaperone. She licked his face and he scratched her ear, wordlessly assuring her that he would not be disloyal to their shared master.

Then, beneath the whistling of the deepwinter winds… he heard it. He’d know the sound of crashing waves anywhere.

Theon leaned heavily against Kyra’s warm flank and all but hobbled past the treeline, drawn to the call of the ocean like a moth to flame. The eastern sea was truly unlike the western tide of his homeland; it had a different smell, a different voice, a different spirit. Theon crept to the edge of the icy bluffs and stared down the sheer drop to frigid waters below. Waves lapped at the black rocks, churning with ice and foam.

Theon watched them with eyes wide, like a man bewitched. He had seen but never touched the Shivering Sea. His family had no dominion in these waters - too far north, too far east, and far too cold. He watched the tides turning beneath his feet, the thrum of the waves beating in time with his heart.

Distantly he thought he could hear someone calling his name, calling him back - but it was lost to the much louder call urging him forward. He moved as if under a spell and stepped off the cliff.

It felt like flying, for a moment.

Then the ocean surged up to meet him, to embrace him and swallow him whole, and then it felt like drowning. He was so familiar with the experience, what with time after time being held down by his sister and reborn in the waves.

Facilitating rebirth was her greatest gift, inherited from their uncle who spent his days breathing life into drowned men. Cycles of rejuvenation seemed to be a family theme. Theon had never awakened what gifts the ocean might have given him; his relationship with the Sunset Sea was just as that with his family and his homeland - estranged.

The Shivering Sea tasted different from its sister. Less salty but more bitter. The cold muted so much. He breathed the ocean into his body just as it had inhaled him into its own. He floated further and further down into the darkness and felt a strange, deep peace. The tide curled around him lovingly, like it had been waiting for him. Beyond the shadows he could feel the ocean teeming with life - seals, whales, coldwater merlings, and even the distant whirling of a kraken.

There were few things that Theon could call his own. Most everything was either his family’s or Robb’s. Things that were given but could be taken away if he did something displeasing. Not much was truly his by right. In fact it seemed he had spent more of his life being the property of others’ than having property of his own. But this…

 _This is mine._ He’d never known anything to be so true before.

* * *

The sea eventually lifted him to the surface and deposited him gently upon a snowy, black pebbled shore. Salted air purged water from his lungs as he stared into the overcast sky above.

For so long Theon had been trapped in one manner or another. For so long he had been going round and around in an endless circle and thinking that was all his life was, that this was the sum of his story. Now, even waist-deep in the middle of winter, it felt like he was on the cusp of something new.

He dazedly sat himself up and blinked the water from his eyes, not even feeling the cold. His vision came into focus on his ankles, rocking amidst the gently falling waves. He rotated his foot, which was suddenly free of any bruising, scars or pain.

His gaze drifted down to his hands, still missing their thumbs. He found himself focusing on the empty spaces where the digits had once been. A strange heat began to build and soon warm blood was leaking from the scars. Theon had once watched a seastar regrow a lost tentacle, awkward and wriggling and pale with new flesh. It was different to see its like in his own hand. First was the shocking white of bone, then the wet crimson muscle, then the flushed pink of skin. He grimaced even as he willed the soft new nails to push from his cuticle.

Then it was done, like the amputations had never happened. Awe and trepidation mixed within him as he peeled the wet bandage from his arm, exposing the brilliant X mark that had been flayed into him. The wound was still raw and tender, but after a moment’s thought he decided to let it be.

The baying of hellhounds echoed from nearby and the sound of crashing footfalls was soon to follow.

“Just what in the _hell_ was that?” Ramsay was grabbing him from behind and roughly handling him to his feet. “Are you trying to play games with me? Do you think that’s cute, you faithless little-“

The words reached his ears as if he were still underwater. Theon felt disconnected, floaty, too far away to take even the Huntsman’s rage seriously.

Ramsay forced Theon to face him and immediately faltered. His brow rose as he took in the splayed, whole hand braced against his chest.

“… I know these winters can blend together somewhat,” he said slowly. “But I distinctly recall relieving you of those this season.”

Theon felt numb even as his scarcely-dressed body began to tremble in the breeze. How to explain what had just transpired? How could Ramsay understand that Theon had just felt a vital piece of himself finally slide into place?

“There’s something strange about you,” Ramsay said, eyes raking over him. “What’s happened?”

Theon certainly felt strange. His whole body was alive with electricity and suddenly he couldn’t get enough of physical touch. His hands roamed, desperate and needy across the strong body before him.

“I think… I think I finally understand.” Theon cupped Ramsay’s bewildered face, feeling giddy and wine-drunk. “It’s all coming together now.”

Ramsay was staring. It was almost enough to make Theon nervous, even riding high as he was. Almost, but not quite.

“… You’re smiling.”

Theon blinked. “Am I?”

“You are.” Ramsay looked uneasy. Why? It didn’t suit him. “You _never_ smile for me.”

Theon’s euphoria tempered somewhat but he did not pull away.

“You don’t often give me a reason.”

Ramsay’s expression soured. “Now is not the time to aggravate me. I am well sick of your ploys.”

“Ssh. I don’t want to fight.” Theon rubbed his thumb across Ramsay’s bottom lip. He wanted something else entirely. “I’m so tired of fighting.”

He eased his wet undergarments from his hips, discarding them at his ankles. Ramsay was frozen in confusion and suspicion even as Theon sensed the lust and want kindling in his veins. The Huntsman was always hungry for something.

“Touch me.”

“Whatever game you’re playing-“

Theon felt irritation well up inside him like a wave. His hand clapped across Ramsay’s mouth to silence him.

“Why is it we only have time for _your_ games, Huntsman?” With deft hands he was yanking the laces free of Ramsay’s breeches, yanking them down to mid-thigh. “I have needs too.”

“Just wait a fucking second-“

A strength that Theon hadn’t known all season, perhaps even longer, was coursing throughout his body. He shoved Ramsay without warning, tumbling them both in sprawl upon the shore. The other man kicked and cursed but Theon was of singular focus. In a tangle of ripping fabric, thrashing limbs, and splashing water, somehow he ended up pinning the larger man to the icy ground. His finger was wet and terribly cold when it sank into Ramsay’s hole, but the Huntsman had done him worse more nights than he could count.

“Ssh, it’s alright,” Theon was hushing him like one would a spooked horse. “I’ll be kinder than you were to me the first time.”

A pitifully low bar and they both knew it.

Theon had one hand wrapped cruelly around Ramsay’s throat as the other worked fingers in and out of his body. The hellhounds were barking and romping in the background, feeding off of their master’s turbulent emotions. Time blurred and the tide of the Shivering Sea was crashing in Theon’s ears, filling his mind with its song. _Do it, show him what it feels like, make him_ ** _scream_** _-_

They both cried out when Theon finally pressed himself inside, gradually sliding inch by agonizing inch until he was fully seated. It took a conscious effort to not get overwhelmed - he hadn’t fucked anyone in years and Ramsay’s body was like a vice around his cock. The heat of their flesh gradually melted away the chill as they curled together, breathing heavily.

Ramsay’s eyes were glazed over, one hand in a death grip on Theon’s wrist and the other fisting uselessly at the cold earth. His legs were squeezing so tightly around Theon’s waist that it should have been painful. Yet the prince hardly noticed it, not even feeling in full command of his own body. All rational thought had vacated them both.

He gave a curious tilt of his hips, eliciting a grunt as he explored the confines of Ramsay’s flesh. Water was a poor substitute for oil but it was still more than the brief suckle of fingers Theon had often been granted in the past. With that in mind his movements became more bold, thrusting a slow but sure rhythm. Ramsay’s cock was at half-mast and rising, but whether it was actual pleasure or just excitement at the situation’s depravity wasn’t clear. The man was well known to get hard over unconventional things. Pain, power and pleasure were all inextricably linked for his mind as well as his cock.

He couldn’t help but wonder if Ramsay had ever been fucked before. Perhaps by a stranger or by one of his boys. The very thought turned to salt in Theon’s mouth. He heightened his pace, making sure to aim directly for that special spot that made the Huntsman gasp and writhe. Let Ramsay cope and sit and walk with it for once. His body was tight and warm and it was a crime that he hadn’t shared it in all these years.

Theon was about to rut his way over the finish line when a strangled noise caught his attention. His gaze snapped up. In his trance he hadn’t been mindful of the force of his grip on Ramsay’s throat - he released in a panic and saw the beginnings of a deep bruise beginning to take shape on the other man’s pale neck.

“Oh. No, I didn’t- I didn’t mean to-“ It was like waking up. What had he done?

He watched with wide eyes as Ramsay coughed and wheezed air back into his lungs. Suddenly Theon felt more unclean than he ever had.

“I don’t know what came over me,” the excuses felt so weak in his mouth. “I’m so-“

The blow to his temple made the world tilt and flip over. When his vision cleared he found himself on his back in the snow and spray, Ramsay over him with Theon’s cock still seated inside.

“I should have known you didn’t have it in you,” Ramsay said, voice rough from abuse. “I have to do everything myself.”

Sat astride with knees braced on either side of Theon’s body, Ramsay shifted his hips. Then, with careful but steady movements, he began to rise and fall with his own rhythm.

“Couldn’t finish what you started, prince? I must say that I’m not very impressed with your technique,” he said breathily as he rode with increasing urgency. “ _This_ is what all the girls were fussing about? I suppose you think size gives you passage to be fucking _rude_.”

Theon groaned as he felt Ramsay’s muscles clench and flutter around him. The sight of bruises on Ramsay’s neck made his blood run hot in his veins. He could feel the pressure mounting, the tightening of his sack that foretold his climax.

Without warning Ramsay dismounted and rose to his knees, giving himself a few fierce strokes before spilling hot seed across Theon’s bare chest. A strangled noise of loss and surprise wrenched from Theon’s throat, his manhood aching with denial. Ramsay grasped both of his hands and pinned them fiercely into the sand.

“Tell me what you want,” he murmured, encompassing Theon with his body.

“You.” Theon arched and pressed closer to him. “Only you. Forever and always.”

Ramsay’s breath was warm on his cheek. Theon spread his thighs and strained to grind his hips for that sacred friction. He’d take anything - the Huntsman’s hand, his fingers, even a thigh to rut against, he was so close -

“ _I knew it._ ”

Ramsay shoved Theon back to the sand with a wet slap, causing the latter to blink and splutter in surprise.

“I fucking _win_ , you beached sea cow! I made you love me.” When Ramsay laughed, it was not the sadistic sound Theon was used to, but breathy and exultant. “You. A smug, spoiled, pureblooded princeling- I finally did it!”

The pure victory and excitement on the man’s face was unlike anything Theon had seen from him before. He could only watch, stunned and boneless on the shore. The Huntsman, for all his intimidating stature, was grinning like an elated child. His eyes were brighter than the moon and his face alight with boyish glee.

“I own you. Every part of you. Your body, your mind, your heart, it’s _all_ mine.” Ramsay rocked forward on his elbows to plant a rough kiss upon Theon’s forehead. “Your soul’s to come next. So up you get, dearest. Our wedding party is waiting.”

“But-“ Theon felt disoriented, his body still lamenting the loss of contact. “Can’t we just-“

He was naked and willing and begging, and Ramsay was pushing him away. He didn’t think that had ever happened before.

“I will fuck you later, you silly whore. If you want into my unmentionables, you’ll have to marry me first. I’m not some common slattern.”

“But we were already -“

“Already what?” Ramsay asked, deceptively casual. “You want to talk about what you just did?”

Theon felt himself pale. He’d raped the Hunstman. Properly, fully. Some strange power had overtaken him and he’d actually gone all the way and done it. Even now he could still feel that strange force lurking somewhere inside of him, dark and carnal and unrepentant.

 _This is where I belong,_ it whispered. _This is home._

Underneath the Huntsman, warm and wanted. Devoured between the northern forest and the arctic sea.

* * *

Theon was carried back to the keep.

A retinue of shades wiped him down and toweled him dry, helping the warmth to seep back into his bones. When they dressed him it was, thankfully, in breeches. Based on the scolding he’d gotten for losing his dress, Theon doubted it would be the last time Ramsay forced him into women’s attire. However it seemed that for tonight the japes were being put on hold, with the ceremony being taken at least halfway seriously.

Even with his thumbs restored Theon struggled to do up his own buttons or laces. A tremor was working through his whole body and it was not likely due to the cold. More than once the shadowfolk gently waved his hands aside so that they could ready him properly.

When he was dried and dressed and there were no more tasks between him and the altar, he was led on weak legs from the chamber. It was bizarre, to be steered down halls he had walked (or crawled) through so many times across so many winters. Somehow a place he knew so thoroughly managed to look so different.

It was because he knew it would be the last time he passed through any of these corridors as an unbound man.

In the past Theon never would have imagined giving himself to anyone. Certainly not like this. He promised himself to Robb, in a way, but had gone back on his vow as soon as his family applied their pressure. There was no breaking an oath of this nature, however. That he was giving himself more wholly and truly to _Ramsay_ , of all people, when he could not even stay faithful to Robb… it was shameful.

Theon was betraying his sister now as well by doing this. He was leaving behind the pelagic pantheon, after all that Yara had done for him. At least thanks to his new ability she would never again have to know what he and Ramsay did in the dark.

The old grove was situated behind the keep. It was the center of the dread realm, a place where the roots of the world tree gnarled and twisted and overcame the earth. The shades led him down a path lined by torches with fairy fires swirling through the air.

He avoided the many eyes watching him as he made his way into the hollow. He had long come to terms with the knowledge that every man, woman and entity in the dread realm had seen him naked and bleeding, and likely from multiple different angles. They all thought he was mad, certainly, for swearing himself to the Huntsman. The dark god had broken Theon time and time again in increasingly elaborate ways. They had all seen it.

At the center of the hollow was where the world tree’s glowing roots converged and blossomed across the ground like a spiral. Ramsay stood there in gleaming leather boots, his cloak long and lined with wolf fur. Dressed in red, pink and black, he was a vibrant contrast to the grim setting. Theon stopped before him, feeling comparatively modest in silks of grey and white.

Ramsay took Theon’s wrist and urged him to stand at his side. “I’ve waited for this.”

“I know.”

“And you want it. I know you do.” The Huntsman’s grip squeezed so tight it cut the circulation.

There was not enough air in this grove. Theon found himself unsteadily nodding.

“I want you.”

His words were honest. He wanted Ramsay, for reasons too pathetic and shameful to explain. It was not the same as wanting to be the wedded property of an evil man for the rest of his days, but that was neither here nor there.

The hollow was deathly still, a fixed point located at almost the base of the universe. Although the Dread Lord had not physically manifested, his presence was palpable all around them.

At last Locke heaved a long-suffering sigh before coming to stand before them, a long red ribbon pooled in his hands.

“You’re really serious about this, lad?” The question was clearly not directed at Theon, which was honestly a little insulting.

Ramsay tightened his grip on Theon’s arm. “Just do it.”

In silence their clasped hands were wrapped by the ribbon, its scarlet silk embroidered with infinitesimal gold lettering: the details and stipulations of their contract. It glowed and shimmered as the ribbon coiled itself around them, binding them together.

Theon’s heart hammered hard and heavy in his chest.

Ramsay had once called them two sides of the same coin: The Driftwood Prince of the Pelagios, Lord of the Shivering Sea, protector of salt brides and hostages and prisoners of war; and the Lord Huntsman of the Dark Forest, Keeper of the Dread Realm, king of monsters and murderers and ghouls. Forever and always intertwined. One represented atonement, sensuality and renewal; the other fear, torment and sin.

The god of prey and the god of predators. Two beings of vastly different makes and from vastly different worlds, forever united by fate and their vows.

 _You are mine and I am yours._ Theon felt the magic of their oath sink into him as a fede ring was slipped onto his finger. His cloak then fell from his shoulders to be replaced by Ramsay’s own. _From this day, to the end of all days._

* * *

Their hands remained bound all the way to the marriage bed.

Theon made use of the return of his thumbs by carefully undoing the laces of Ramsay’s clothes. It didn’t make sense to be nervous when they had slept together so many times before, but of course it was different now. Now it was a consummation.

“I’m still waiting for an explanation on the, ah, miraculous return of your fingers,” Ramsay said amidst his assault on Theon’s mouth.

“I don’t understand it either. It’s as if something just- just fell into place inside of me,” Theon said as he was wrestled out of his clothes and pressed into the sheets. “If I think on it hard enough… the wounds just mend.”

“I’ll be the judge of that. Let me try again,” Ramsay pulled away just enough to produce a fearsome blade from thin air.

“What!?” Theon jumped back, hitting his head on the bed frame. “This is our wedding night!”

“And?”

“And I was expecting to do something _else_?”

“What, fucking? I’ve been giving you my cock all season, your arse can wait. I want to cut your thumbs off.” Ramsay insisted, petulantly bouncing on the bed. “You can’t just tell me you’ve learned a new trick like that and not let me play.”

“Are you serious?”

“Just a toe then, if you’re going to be such a wailing babe on the matter,” Ramsay said, tugging Theon by his ankle. “I’ll do it real quick-like. I won’t even flay it first.”

“Fuck’s sake.” Theon grabbed a nearby pillow and buried his face in it. “I’m not going to look.”

“Weak.”

“A-and only do the small one!”

Ramsay clicked his tongue. “You are so lucky I’m fond of you.”

It still wasn’t as quick as Theon would have liked. Ramsay braced the left foot against the bed frame. His knife cut through flesh like butter, but needed some added pressure to slice through the bone. Theon stifled his screams into the cushion until he heard the dull thud of the blade sinking into the wooden frame.

There was that awful throbbing pain, raw and familiar. Theon found himself focusing on it, willing his body to stem the bleeding and attend the damage. He heard Ramsay make a faint sound of interest as the hurt slowly ebbed and eventually faded.

“Like a worm,” Ramsay said, poking the new toe. “You ever cut one of those in half and watch them regrow?”

“No.”

“Well I find myself reminded. That’s fun!” Ramsay licked the blood from his knife. “And here I thought you hadn’t gotten me a wedding gift. You sweetheart.”

Theon made a strangled noise in his throat. “I do need to be conscious to heal myself, so I wouldn’t get too enthused. My limits still hold.”

“Uh huh,” Ramsay barely seemed to hear him. “It turned to water when the new one finished growing in.”

Not unlike the dead river spirits in the forest. Ramsay sounded almost disappointed, which was concerning. What on earth did he want with a severed toe? Fucking hell, he didn’t _save_ those things, did he?

“Ngh. My mother was a sea nymph, it happens.” Theon said breathlessly. “And my father was-“

“A deep-sea tentacled monstrosity, yes I heard.”

“… Right.” Theon sighed. “My family always said I was a late bloomer. I suppose I finally got myself sorted.”

“More like _I_ got you sorted. You just needed to accept your place.” Ramsay slung his shirt off the side of the bed. “So. Where were we?”

About damn time.

They were in familiar territory as he worked Theon open, biting and sucking along the line of his neck. Ramsay fit inside Theon’s body like a key into a lock, and the youthful glee and air of victory permeating from him was getting contagious.

“Mine, mine, mine, all mine” fell from Ramsay’s lips like a mantra and Theon glowed from the attention. He held fast like a limpet, as if letting go would end in him being washed out to sea. His nails raked down Ramsay’s pale back and his lips kissed at every inch of skin he could reach. Sex felt different as an oathbound pair. More intimate. Like it _meant_ something. For once Theon found himself reveling in the feeling of being owned.

“Tell me I matter,” Theon pleaded, muscles straining as his legs locked around Ramsay’s hips. “Tell me that you want me and you’ll never stop.”

Ramsay growled, his grip merciless on the nape of Theon’s neck. “If I were capable of going without you, I’d have flayed you head to toe and fed the meat to my dogs _years_ ago.”

It may as well have been the most romantic thing he’d ever heard. Theon was smiling and crying like a madman, cock weeping against his stomach as Ramsay’s cock pressed and rubbed into all the sweetest places inside of him. As pleasure ignited in his veins and backlit his eyes, Theon thought that this could be worth it. Worth bleeding for, worth hurting for, just to feel like this - desired, coveted, owned. In the most absurd way he even felt _safe_ , because Ramsay could ravage him physically in every fashion imaginable, but could _never_ cast him out or abandon him or hurt him in any of the ways Theon feared most.

The sight of his smile had Ramsay’s pupils dilating, swelling until the pale blue-grey of his irises was swallowed into the void. The force of his thrusts began to shake the bed, frame creaking and legs grinding upon the stone floor. The Huntsman wasn’t often one to initiate kissing, but tonight his lips were rough and demanding against Theon’s own. He was a biter, unsatisfied until his tongue tasted blood, licking into Theon’s mouth so that his bride could taste it too.

They peaked together, wrapped in each other with sweat glistening on their skin. Theon trembled, the intimacy of everything that had transpired beginning to catch up with him. His insides felt raw and his mind was shaken.

Ramsay littered Theon’s neck and shoulders with more biting kisses, leaving a trail of love marks across fair skin. He finally shook them both loose of what remained of the ribbon tying them together; the golden lettering of their contract was gone, the magic having long soaked into them. The ribbon was discarded off the bed in a pile.

“Hn… should save it,” Theon said tiredly, shifting from his place beneath Ramsay’s body. “It’s… I don’t know, a sentimental keepsake or some such nonsense.”

“You really are such a woman sometimes.” Ramsay looked down on him, the gleam in his eyes bringing to mind an especially smug cat. “So. How does it feel, being mine?”

“It’s been a brief minute, but not so bad thus far. Lord husband.”

His lips teased a smirk at the feeling of Ramsay’s softening cock twitching inside him.

“Don’t be insolent,” Ramsay said, sharply pinching his side. “Disrespectful brides get the belt, don’t you know?”

“You’ve done worse.”

“Hm. Yet for all your whinging and moaning, here you lay.”

“Well I’ve gone mad, obviously,” Theon said. “A whole lifetime spent running and guarding myself, up in smoke on account of you. Horrible.”

“You want me. You _love_ me, even, though you won’t yet voice it,” Ramsay said, oozing self-satisfaction. “Out of everyone, I’m the one that’s won you. Why is that?”

Why indeed.

“Because… because you’ve always seen right through me,” Theon replied. “Robb, for how good he is and how much I know he cares… he’s never truly seen me. Not really. He’s always had his family and his future and the whole world on a platter for him, and he’s never really been able to understand. And that was alright, truly. There were things within me that I didn’t want him to see.”

It was a wretched thing to be known, especially when you were a wretched person. Theon had always hid away his weakness and vulnerability like shameful secrets, with varying degrees of success across the board. The only one who saw to the heart of him, who beheld the full depth of his flaws and still didn’t want him to change or grow beyond them, was Ramsay.

“And don’t get me talking about my family - no matter how hard I tried to prove myself, to them I was just the disappointment. The soft one,” Theon said bitterly. “Everybody either only sees what they want to see, or what _I_ want them to see. Save for you. You cut right through it all.”

It was far from ideal and it wasn’t a love Theon would have chosen for himself, but there was something intoxicating about being the object of infatuation for a dangerous man. As if he would have ever managed to achieve, let alone sustain a healthy love life anyway. As if the universe would have ever even allowed it.

Theon’s muscles flexed, feeling Ramsay once more growing progressively hard inside him.

“Our stories are one and the same now.”

It was finally time to turn the page.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are, winding down with some new references.
> 
> \- The Tree of Life: The Celts loved themselves some trees; they were thought to guard the land and act as doorways to the Otherworld. The Tree of Life was believed to connect the lower and upper worlds, and was the channel through which people and gods communicated. As you can tell, it is very similar to the Norse concept of the World Tree.
> 
> \- The Wedding: As aforementioned, ritual abduction was common in the ancient world. It was (in later, civilized times anyway) done with the consent of all involved. The groom, sometimes with his stag party, would grab the bride and bring her to the wedding hall.  
> > Ring exchanges have also existed across cultures. The claddagh is a [relatively] recent creation but it is a form of fede ring, which have existed since Ancient Rome. The finger a claddagh is worn on and the direction the ring faces indicates the relationship status of the bearer.  
> > Handfasting: also known as “tying the knot”. Wherein the couple’s hands are bound together as they give their vows. It was originally a pagan _betrothal_ ceremony, with the couple staying betrothed for a year as a “trial” marriage. However in later times it became a wedding ceremony in of itself.  
> > Deepwinter: I wanted the union to take place in the center of winter, which irl is marked by Imbolc - a celebration of the hearth and the goddess Brigid. By this point folks were already looking forward to and prepping for spring, excited that winter was half over. Rituals revolved around new beginnings, and it was in essence the pagan New Year’s festival (some claim Samhain was the Celtic New Year, but the evidence for this is flimsy at best; it’s a modern interpretation that I personally think is only popular because people love Halloween). The fact that we still have New Year in the middle of winter lends credence to this imo. Since Theon and Ramsay represent the predator-prey cycle and the symbolism of rebirth/renewal after long periods of struggle, it makes sense that their union would mark the birth of the new year.
> 
> \- The symbolic dynamic between predator and prey is one that is often captured in traditional art, usually depicting a hound chasing a hare (sometimes swapped for a deer or fox) in an endless wheel. It represents the eternal, renewing cycle of nature, with the wheel depicting both parties as having equal footing.  
> 
> 
> \- On that note, I really enjoy this art, which depicts an old seanfhocail (Gaeilge proverb):  
>   
> Translation: “To kiss the leg of the hare”. It means to come very close to success, but to miss your shot and say farewell to something you will likely never see again. It's that "close but no cigar" feeling Ramsay's had for every winter up till now, ha.


	7. Wheel of Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We're here. Let's see how we got here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hnng. Yeah so I do have some excuses. Between the Virus That Stole Halloween and the Election from Hell, I wasn't able to get into the campy-dark sort of mood that updating Tooth and Claw requires. That update is still coming, I promise the fic is not abandoned, but Katabasis was easier to write.
> 
> On that note, this finale was such a long time coming and covers so much ground that it was a huge task to assemble. It still feels pretty rough to me, but I was determined to get it out there. And now it is! Very long.

**Winter 2**

Gelid iron was cold enough to burn his skin. It seared his knees and wrists, chains rattling as he rammed against the bars of his cage.

Laughter and jeers echoed around him, though it was hard to focus on that whilst seeing red. His whole body was sore and aching, running on pure emotion and instinct. Worst of all was the pain between his legs, which he was doing his damndest to push to a darkened corner of his mind.

Even with tears wet on his face, he was still kicking and spitting like a cornered beast. The taste of blood and snow in his mouth was starting to become all too familiar.

“You’re not being very sporting,” The Huntsman’s laugh was too bright and boyish for the sort of man he was. “Didn’t you miss me?”

As soon as Theon heard that damned horn’s call booming from beyond the hills, his first thought had been _surely not. He has to be joking._ Then there was only _oh fuck, oh no oh no…_

It didn’t make sense. Theon had found the bloodstained tokens left for him, but responded with denial. He convinced himself it was a tasteless prank from someone with a grudge against him (of whom there were still many on the mainland). The Lord Huntsman had already had his fun. Right?

Theon lashed ineffectually against the cage door. It clanged loudly but held fast. His foot hurt.

“Fuck off and die, you sick bastard!”

“How rude. You’re the one willing to run off with half-breeds in the dead of night. Your standards can’t be _that_ high.”

The Huntsman had run him up a tree that evening. For hours he had leisurely circled the base of it like a living nightmare, a shadow, with his movements as hungry and graceful as those of his hellhounds. The beasts had snarled and jostled amongst each other as they prowled across the great tree’s roots, and by the time Theon was dragged down, kicking and spitting, the whole hunting party had trickled in to watch his humiliation. The Huntsman’s gleaming smile had been as bright as the Hunter’s Moon above.

Those same hounds were barking and baying all around them now, shaking the walls of the Dreadfort kennels.

“You’re deranged,” Theon said, trying to sound stronger than he felt. “The hell is in your head, Huntsman?”

“ _Huntsman_ , you say? I rather preferred ‘my lord,’” The Huntsman was leaning against an empty cage and using a knife to pick the dirt from under his nails. “I see your sister has reverted your attitude along with the rest of you.”

Theon scowled. No mention of his sister belonged on the Huntsman’s lips, not when it was the dark god’s fault that the Prince had returned to her as a shattered burden.

“Why are you doing this?” Theon couldn’t keep the despair from his overpowering the disbelief in his voice. “The war is over and I have nothing - no leverage, no treasures, no information - nothing of value for you!”

Their pantheons had made peace; troubled peace, but peace nonetheless. Robb had forgiven him, albeit at the cost of Theon’s estival freedom, and all should have been settled.

“My, you’re dim. I already knew as much, but _really._ ” The Huntsman snorted. “I took you because I wanted to. Your lovers’ spat with the king just made it easy.”

Theon rolled his eyes. He didn’t want any mention of Robb on the hellspawn’s mouth either.

“I’ve run you down fair and true,” the Huntsman continued. “Don’t be a sore loser now.”

“Who’s the sore loser?” Theon snapped. “I got _away_ fair and true. You’re the one who can’t let it go.”

The Huntsman’s eyes darkened. “It was a clever stunt you pulled, slipping out of your chains. I’m still not sure how you managed it. Perhaps I’ll weld you into your shackles this time and see if that does the trick.”

Theon couldn’t hold back a shudder at the thought. He told himself it was just the winter chill.

“Not _permanently_ , of course,” the Huntsman said in hollow placation. “That would get probably get dull in a few years’ time.”

“Years?” Theon’s voice cracked painfully.

How long did the Huntsman plan to keep this up? The game had to wear thin eventually. It had to.

“You thought you could slip away? You ought to know better. I always get my quarry, prince. _Nothing_ escapes me,” The Huntsman had kneeled down so they were at eye level. “So let’s try this again, hm?”

“You’re mad,” Theon said, glare cutting even through his tears. “You’ll never get away with this.”

“No?” The king of monsters carelessly tilted his head, sharp eyes never leaving Theon’s stricken face. “I think I must have spoiled you last time and let you get the wrong idea about yourself.”

The Huntsman was reaching for the cage’s key with one hand and his belt with another. Theon knew what came next. He would go down fighting; kicking and cursing, biting and clawing with teeth and nails he’d inevitably lose.

“I’ll kill you,” he breathed, whole body coiling for a fight.

The Huntsman looked at him with something like endearment. The dark god’s breath was hot through the cage bars as he and leaned into Theon’s space. The sickeningly familiar smell of sweet musk and blood invaded the prince’s nose.

“That’s good,” The Huntsman said finally, gaze keenly roving over his prey. “That look in your eyes. I want you to keep that.”

The metallic click of the key turning in its lock was deafening.

* * *

**Present Day**

The Hunger Moon was ghostly pale, nearly white as it peeked out from behind the overcast skies. The city square was warmly lit and filled with music and laughter. Vendors loudly peddled their food and wares. There were no children present at the festivities, the youngest being unmarried youths of eligible age. Ale and sweet mead flowed freely and the effects were already beginning to show in the crowd.

Even on such a dark winter night the city was abustle with light and activity. Fires burned bright in their braziers and the air was heavy with the smells of blood and sizzling animal fat. Humans were always eager to establish a new festival, and had taken to recent news with the characteristically macabre, voyeuristic creativity Theon had come to expect.

When gods were married, it was a rather big deal.

Even with Old Ned long gone and his once vibrant bride now lurking the liminal spaces as Lady Stoneheart, their wedding day was still celebrated as a festival of fertility and life: a union of earth and freshwater that was observed every year. The match between the Lord Huntsman and the Driftwood Prince was no symbol of light and bounty, but it was still a significant event regardless.

The Night of Hunger was aptly named - what were they both if not gods of the physical and the flesh, of carnality and carnage? Predator and prey, bound together as one house.

From the moment Theon and Ramsay had clasped hands at the base of the world, muses were whispering the news into the ears of their favorite singers. In no time at all songs of the union were being shared by bards across the lands. Everyone knew.

“You’re awfully quiet. Aren’t you having fun?”

Theon sent Ramsay a sour look. After being isolated in darkness for so long, he could scarcely breathe without being overwhelmed by the colors and vibrancy of the overworld. There was nothing bright or warm in the dread realm, and humans always burned so vividly (if only briefly).

“I’m glad to be here, my lord.”

A good, safe answer. Ramsay rolled his eyes at it. The pair of them stood atop the roof of the capitol building, looking down on the lights and revelry below.

“I’m not sure what I expected,” Theon said. “It’s quite a lot, isn’t it?”

For a wedding festival between two gods who had never had holy days of their own, it really was.

Even on tourneys and fertility festivals the Driftwood Prince had only ever been honored amongst an ensemble of gods. Theon’s return to the islands was celebrated, but the affair was really more about Yara’s victory and the end of the storm seasons, with his rebirth just coinciding with the dawn of springtime.

The Lord Huntsman didn’t fare much better - simply invoking his name was a bad omen, so he didn’t exactly inspire celebration. He was deity to be honored soberly, desperately; offerings were only ever given to beg for mercy that was not otherwise forthcoming. Before their worlds collided the Driftwood Prince and Lord Huntsman had not been mainstream gods. If they had never found each other, they would have likely remained downright obscure.

“It’s enough,” Ramsay said. “Even they know this was a long time coming.”

“I suppose.”

Although it honestly made Theon a bit uncomfortable to see a celebration being made of his surrender.

“Don’t be that way.” Ramsay pinched his cheek roughly. “Everyone enjoys a good story. We were bound together long before a ribbon finished the job. It’s romantic, see?”

The event was still unconventional as far as wedding festivals went. The preliminary hunt had been successful, which was little surprise given the gods the city sought to honor. Sacrifices were made, with blood spilled and fats drained and meat distributed for the feast. The hunting party that brought the greatest prize had been given a special honor.

As if on cue, a shrill scream echoed through the night. Some humans paused their conversations or turned to the noise before resuming what they’d been doing. Another two, three shrieks echoed, and then nothing.

“Bit barbaric.” Theon muttered.

“There’s no place for puritans at a party.”

Somewhere in the streets beyond, the victorious hunters were roving in violent revelry, bare and armed with leather whips. Blows from their cords were said to grand good fortune, both in fertility and in gaining passionate marriages. Some youths bared their skin to be struck, others were jumped and held down.

It was far from the most scandalous or explicit festival that the mortals had ever conceived. Humans tended to take any opportunity to unleash their repression in unique and vibrant ways, and there was no time more stifling and in need of release than winter.

Periodically hearing screams elicited by the symbolic wild hunt was still… disconcerting, to say the least.

“Beautifully savage things, humans,” Ramsay said, holding Theon even tighter. “That’s why I’m fond of them.”

The mortals had certainly proven themselves to have a taste for the macabre, that much was true. Theon hoped they wouldn’t come to the festival every time. Here the Night of Hunger was all meat and bruises and sexuality, but outside the cities it was different. Where life was quieter and more modest, the anniversary would be observed as a time of settling debts and resolving the past year’s conflicts, of making peace and embarking on new beginnings. Seeds were sewn in indoor planters and pots to be later transitioned into home gardens come spring. A simple, comfortable observance that Theon much preferred.

“I don’t know why you’re being difficult. I expect your given days are all terribly dull,” Ramsay said wryly. “What do the humans do, hold more tourneys? Stand across a field and shoot barrels? Riveting.”

“The closest thing I have to my own rites are the salt weddings,” Theon said with a wince. “They’re not holy days, but they’re mine. Probably be even more so now, after you captured and bound me.”

_I’m just like them. A stolen bride in a foreign land._

Well. If his trials could bring the salt wives comfort, that made it a little worthwhile in of itself.

“It’s the law of conquest,” he found himself saying, echoing his sister’s words. “If you can take it and keep it, it’s yours. Might makes right.”

“Oh? You actually believe that?” Ramsay asked, brow raised.

Theon frowned. Power was a funny thing and prone to spring forth from unexpected places. Tables were always turning. The times he’d gotten the upper hand on Ramsay proved that well enough.

“I’m the god of prey,” he said finally. “What do you think?”

* * *

**Autumn 9**

He’d fucked up.

Theon was no stranger to the feeling but if anything that made it all worse. Always fucking up, always inexplicably being the one to survive and see others pay the price.

For once he had actually done what seemed to be the smart and reasonable thing. In early autumn he had boarded a ship and set sail for the islands. Forget the North and its frosted woods, its vibrant stars and mountains of ice - his place was on black shores and salted bluffs, knee-deep in cold tidewater beneath rolling skies of grey.

Except it had all gone wrong. Theon didn’t know if it was a natural consequence of his absence or if Ramsay had made it so out of spite. The predators of the forest had become unhinged in their bloodthirst, overhunting the woods and consuming more than their fill. It got to the point that they were killing prey just to leave the mangled remains untouched on the ground.

Theon had run back near mid-autumn, and in doing so had managed to right the balance, but there was no bringing back what had already been lost. It sank in fast and deep how many people were still going to die in winter.

_Proud of yourself?_

The words cut like a knife, dripping from where they had been traced in blood on the glass of Theon’s cabin window. The corpse it had come from was rail thin, little more than a pile of bones on the porch.

Had it been the starvation or Ramsay’s blade that first killed the man? Was he a sacrifice, abandoned on the Huntsman’s forest altar in a desperate plea for mercy? Or perhaps the human had sacrificed himself and walked into the woods to spare his family the burden of feeding him. Better prospects than some, when there were already talks of unfortunate folk turning to cannibalism to survive winter.

Theon spent the afternoon burying the body. It was the least of what could be done.

The silence around him was all the harder to ignore as he worked, the scrape of his shovel in the snow and dirt deafening. The forest was too quiet: bird song was distant and fleeting, with the scuttling of unseen rodents or deer nearly absent. Was half a season all it took? Winters had always been hard in this region, with the fortune of autumn often deciding the fate of the coming season. People had always starved, but before the war the titans had maintained their own order.

Old Ned was gone now, of course. The lands were emptier without him and all the more dangerous, especially with the Dread Lord among the few titans still alive. Once Robb fell into slumber and Jon was preoccupied fighting off the wights, dominion over the realm all but fell into the hands of beasts and devils. Predators and ravenous creatures whose appetites were without reason or restraint. They would pick the earth barren if given half the chance.

And Theon had given it.

The dead man was buried without a headstone or name to mark his presence. He would not be the first nor last. Theon sat beneath a nearby tree, head tilted back to gaze through the branches. The leaves had long turned from green to gold. Many were now browning on the forest floor, intermixed and layered with the snow.

If he closed his eyes he could feel, somewhere, that the balance of the forest was beginning to mend. Rabbits were mating, a doe was shepherding her surviving young. Fowl took shelter and nested in an outcropping that the foxes could not reach.

Not enough, not to undo the damage or the stop the deaths to come. But it was happening.

The forest would endure this blow in the long run. It was the immediate consequences that Theon would have to bear on his conscience. Most painful was the inevitability of it all. The worst had not yet come, but it would, and everyone knew it. And it was Theon’s fault.

“It wasn’t worth it,” he said aloud, voice rough.

He had been screaming. Not out of physical pain but frustration and guilt, sorrow and rage. He had heard his own voice echo back to him and soaked in his own despair. The wretched unfairness of it all. He could have stayed gone, done what his sister said and told the mainland to hang itself. Yara would have felt no responsibility or guilt for dead mainlanders. Theon envied her.

It was all for naught in the end. So much tragedy, and Theon knew just where he’d be come winter solstice.

“I bet you’re loving this,” he said bitterly.

On the eve of the solstice, Theon wasn’t actually sure if the smug bastard was still watching.

Ramsay had somehow, against all reason, not yet given up on this game. After Theon escaped that first winter on the back of Jon’s horse, he had thought (prayed) that not even Ramsay would have the audacity to hunt Theon again _._ And again. And agai-

Theon breathed deep, leaning back against the tree until he could feel the scratch of the bark through his clothes. The forest air was cool and sweet with the lingering scent of autumn.

Maybe even after all these years he was still trying to be someone else. He’d thought he could set himself free by being only a pelagic god, like he was meant to be. Because that had worked _so_ well for him the first time. The war should have taught him better, but Theon still wished to be of one heart and mind. A creature of _one_ world to which he could give his whole allegiance, with no thought or care or guilt for any other.

Clearly it was not to be. If he wanted to serve the people and the prey of the woods, the Huntsman was simply the price he had to choose to pay every winter. Ramsay had to know that Theon was half-broken already, spirit all but snuffed out under the weight of his misery and regret.

The quiet dragged on until it was finally broken by the sudden sound of a disturbed crow taking flight. Then it was gone, and Theon had never felt more alone.

Night fell and the Hunter’s Moon rose. It was strangely liberating, to hear that faraway horns of the Wild Hunt and feel only indifference. Let them come.

The moon had not even fully mounted the sky when he heard the first crash of the hellhounds thundering through the brush. Three of them, one by one skidding to a halt in the snow around him. From his place on the ground, the beasts looked even more massive. Their great flanks heaved with their breathing, tongues wagging as they exhaled plumes of steam into the frosty air.

Then came the slowing hoofbeats, followed by boots landing and tromping through the snow.

“Well, well, well. Look who decided to show up.” The Huntsman rested a hand on a hound’s head and looked down at him with disdain. “Couldn’t even give me the courtesy of a chase. Pathetic.”

Theon averted his gaze. He didn’t have anything to say.

“Crying already?” Huntsman asked in false sympathy. “Poor babe. I’ve been very cross, you know. It was a terribly lonesome early autumn without you… I worried you wouldn’t come back at all. You know how that felt?”

Theon winced and tried to control his shudders.

“It felt like being _cheated._ But no matter - we’ll come to blows. I always enjoy finding new ways to break you.”

Theon already knew that. Several winters into this twisted game and the Huntsman’s creativity was still surprising him. He hadn’t wanted to see any more of those new ways he could break, so he’d run. Run away and left the people of the North to starve in barren woods.

“Oh, what a sad, stupid thing that you are. You think this is as bad as it gets?” He cupped Theon’s face, so tender and soft, and spoke with deadly clarity. “You’re still so naive. Let me teach you something, prince: _it can always get worse_.”

“Worse?” Theon met his gaze. “Look at _you_ , Huntsman. And look around. I was out of your clutches and I came back by choice. What you do to me always comes second to what I do to myself.”

The Huntsman’s eyes narrowed. “And you want me to punish you, is that it?”

Theon did not reply, but his expression must have spoken clearly enough.

“Well isn’t that just so… boring.” Huntsman released him with disgust. “I never took you for _boring_ , of all things.”

Theon gave him a dead-eyed look. “Are you going to get this over with or not?”

“Well I’m not sure I’m even hard anymore, thanks to you.”

“Sounds like a personal problem.”

“It’s cute when you try to be smart.” The Huntsman pulled back and rest his hands on his hips, cloak billowing softly in the breeze. “Your kill count might rival mine these days. Is that why you’re having yourself a little cry? Realizing that perhaps you’re not the victim of this story.”

“… No,” Theon said, voice almost lost to the wind. “I don’t think that.”

In the end the Huntsman managed to get hard after all.

* * *

**Present Day**

Theon had made several public appearances to mortals in the past. Tourneys, fertility festivals, salt unions… but for the former two occasions Theon was always just one god among many overseeing the events, and the unions were always so small and intimate.

When the Driftwood Prince and Lord Huntsman made themselves known, a great hush fell across the people. They stood high upon the steps of the senate building and looked out upon the crowded town square. All in assembly, even the city’s king, knelt in deference and prayer.

Theon could practically feel his new husband glowing beside him. Ramsay was still riding the high of his victory and the novelty of their union, and had always loved to preen besides. He always reveled in the mortals’ fear of him, choosing terror over love without question. Yet to see the humans also celebrating and giving oblations in his name was surely doing terrible things to the god’s ego.

The city’s king rose but kept his head low, a hand pressed modestly to his chest. “My lords, you honor us with your presence. A thousand congratulations on your covenant.”

“Mm. It’s a fine affair you’ve arranged,” Ramsay said, looking loftily around him. “I’m pleased.”

“No expense was spared for the occasion,” the king said. “Your eminence, it has been a long winter and we were hopi-“

“What do you think, pet?” Ramsay said, giving Theon an offhand glance over his shoulder. “You’ve been sullen. You didn’t enjoy yourself?”

Theon grew tense right along with the rest of the crowd. “I did! I- I did, my lord. Truly.”

“Oh?” Ramsay asked, brow raised. “So it’s just my company that displeases you?”

Theon hastily tried to smooth his features and calm his nerves. “It’s a fine festival, as you’ve said. I’m easily overwhelmed is all, as my lord husband knows.”

“Ah. Of course. My prince is so delicate, you see.” Ramsay pulled Theon against him. “All the excitement has him out of sorts. Nothing a drink won’t fix, I’m sure.”

It took a brief moment for the king to understand.

“All has been prepared for you, my lords. Please, reap our hospitality.”

The palace feast was a bountiful sight indeed. Too bountiful for winter, in Theon’s opinion. At least the meats were mostly kills brought by the day’s hunting parties rather than the city’s reserves.

The gods were sat in the places of highest honor, where the best cuts and freshest produce were laid. Outside the royal estate, the city was filled with folk having feasts and celebrations of their own. Inside, musicians and dancers and snake handlers entertained whilst fair youths served the guests. Theon watched as Ramsay trailed a finger up the thigh of the serving girl filling his cup, lifting her dress.

There was nothing to say about it. The contract had bound Theon to fidelity, but Ramsay was only really barred from bedding Myranda. He had never really taken the time to consider just how many others Ramsay typically found himself with outside of winter, or how often. He would find out soon enough.

“What are you doing?”

Theon froze with his fork poised above his plate. ‘ _What am_ ** _I_** _doing?_ ’ is what he wanted to ask.

“Eating, my lord?” He said dully, eyes still fixed on the table so he wouldn’t have to contend with anything else.

“I didn’t give you permission,” Ramsay said pointedly. “Take the greens.”

Theon scowled before turning to him with a look that was half disdain, half disbelief. It was their wedding festival and he was pulling this nonsense? Really?

With a sigh Theon speared his cutlet of pork and transitioned it to Ramsay’s plate, exchanging it for the other god’s salad. As he began to moodily chew on the leafy greens and seasoned parsnips, he flicked his gaze to the nearby platter of cheese and grapes before looking back to his keeper.

“Maybe later, if you behave.” Ramsay waved another servant over. “Water for my beloved. He is best kept away from the wine - he makes poor enough decisions whilst sober.”

Theon shoved a forkful of steamed carrot into his mouth to keep from cursing. Bloody typical.

Ramsay had been glowing with smug triumph ever since the wedding night but Theon was already thinking sober thoughts about their future. The deal was done now and it was only a matter of time before Ramsay’s nature shined through once more, bringing with it all sorts of cruel new games. The Huntsman had made no secret of how excited he was to test the limits of the Prince’s regenerative capabilities. Theon was hardly looking forward to it.

As the meal wore on and the assemblage got progressively full of food and wine, the entertainment also adapted. Performers were wearing less and less clothing, and the clothing they wore was of little substance. Before long there were maidens kissing on the lounger and men grappling before the great fire. A spell of lust and savagery was taking hold: spilled wine was greedily licked from bare skin, clothes were rucked up to wrap dangerously around bared throats. Diners began to trickle from their tables to the sofas and furs arranged throughout the grand hall.

Theon had never been the type to run from what was clearly an imminent orgy, but in that moment he desperately wanted to go home. He felt a broad hand squeeze his thigh and suddenly froze in place.

“I love you in red,” Ramsay murmured warmly against his neck. “It suits you.”

It really didn’t. Shades of pink were kinder to him, but vibrant reds too often sat poorly on Theon’s form and clashed with his natural coloring. However they were the Huntsman’s favored colors, so Theon would wear them whilst in Ramsay’s custody and under his power.

Which would be… almost always. Forever.

Great.

“You honor me,” Theon said without enthusiasm. “You look striking as always.”

Ramsay was looking a bit flushed, honestly. Theon glanced at the empty goblet on the table before looking around the room. From his experiences in fertility rites, he knew it wasn’t uncommon for certain… excitatory substances to be slipped into wine. Just to get the party going.

The hand on his thigh grew more insistent, sliding up and into his lap. Theon’s heart skipped in alarm.

“Ramsay, m-maybe we should, ah-“ He choked on his words as his breeches were roughly invaded, laces all but ripped out of place. “G- we should go-“

“Go where?” Ramsay asked, palming him roughly between the legs. “You remember the contract. Your body is mine to take whenever I please.”

Theon was handled to his feet by the grip on his cock, legs awkwardly splayed apart. Ramsay swept plates and cutlery out of the way before roughly laying him upon the table. Spilled water and wine soaked through his clothes before they garments were roughly peeled off and away.

Theon had been taken in front of others before, but only ever the Huntsman’s own men and followers. They were out in the world now, and the shameful nature of their relationship suddenly felt so harshly lit outside the surrealism of the dread realm.

He could feel the weight of the room watching them. He chanced a peek, splayed on his back as he was, so the dining hall was flipped around him. His tentative gaze easily met the bright, enraptured eyes of the assembled people. Many had paused in their own activities to spectate.

 _They’re loving this_ , he realized to himself in dismay. _They’ve loved it all along._

In his heart it was something he’d always known: humans loved a good story, with the morbid and scandalous tales being some of the most widespread and beloved of all. They were _glad_ that Theon was now the Huntsman’s prize, and they had embraced the news of their union with nothing short of morbid delight and arousal. Had anyone ever really wanted the Prince to escape at all?

Ramsay ran his hands down Theon’s freshly bared skin. His pupils were stretched wide, giving him the same detached and disquietingly piercing look he sometimes wore when watching Theon bleed. It was the expression of a man who was both staring with rapt attention, and thoroughly deaf to anything outside his own mind.

“You’re really mine now,” Ramsay said mildly, his fingers still slick with grease as they probed and teased. “And they all know it.”

“Rams-“

“Everyone is going to know it,” he said, digits twisting cruelly. “It’ll be all anyone thinks of when they look at you now.”

Theon bit his lip to keep the sounds in as Ramsay began to unclasp his own clothing. He screwed his eyes shut, not wanting to look at all the souls bearing witness.

“What’s wrong? It’s not so different from those fertility rites you used to partake in, is it?” Ramsay scoffed. “Don’t be shy - there is no higher calling than the service of one’s husband.”

Ramsay briefly ground their hips together, Theon’s cock growing hard at the rare scrap of attention. Ramsay’s own length dragged slowly over him, fully erect and flushed at the tip. Ramsay’s hand reached down to fiercely grasp the prince’s face, nails digging into the hollows of Theon’s cheeks until the prince was forced to open his eyes once more.

“Don’t hide either. This is a glad occasion,” Ramsay exhaled the words amidst the tentative rocking of his hips, penetration slow but unrelenting. “You used to be _nothing_ , remember? Sex and beauty of the most banal kind, and if it hadn’t been for me you’d be known as little more than a god of fools and traitors.”

The truth hurt more than the heavy hand on Theon’s throat or the merciless friction between his legs. Ramsay had always fucked more like an animal than a lord. His movements were rough and impatient, his savage nature seeping into every thrust. For not the first time Theon felt as if he were being forcibly shaped around the other man. The pain and pleasure mingled together into a single, distinct sensation that he had come to associate with Ramsay specifically.

It was a strange sort of marvel to feel Ramsay inside of him, to be full and joined and made one flesh. Even in the worst of times, the feeling of being just so _close_ to the other man and with no barriers between them had carried a strange, profound weight. Theon had found it loathsome. In various ways it still was and always would be.

The force of Ramsay’s motions shook the table: glasses crashed down and splattered their contents to the floor, silverware clanged and clattered together. Theon was held in place by the hands on his throat and waist, feeling every creak and groan of the table beneath him. He hissed through his teeth at a hard thrust to that infuriating spot inside.

“You like it,” Ramsay said with a breathless laugh. “Getting fucked by your husband for everyone to see. Showing them all what you really are-”

_And what am I?_

Brother, traitor, victim, prince, martyr, bride. Labels stuck to him like pine sap, chafing and stubbornly adhered to his skin.

Theon pressed his face into the table and tried to breathe even. The smell of spilled wine and gravy on the polished oak was heavy in his nose. The temperature in the hall had risen, making the air thick with the scents of food, sweat and sex. The symphony of moans, heavy breathing and the slap of skin played on in the background.

Theon knew in his heart that this moment would be endlessly immortalized on reliefs, paintings and pottery for the indefinite future: the Driftwood Prince flung down and prone beneath the Lord Huntsman, pinned and fucked amidst the sacred orgy of their wedding festival. The culmination of all their struggles and exploits thus far.

“You should be thanking me,” Ramsay said, the heat of him warming Theon from the inside out. “I’m the best thing that ever happened to you.”

Sometimes it was hard to tell when Ramsay was being sincere. Most days he was completely self-aware about what a horror he was, with no illusions about the cruelties he performed for fun. Other times, like now, he seemed to genuinely mean it. Theon knew better than to outright disagree.

“I wouldn’t be what I am without you,” he stammered truthfully. “You made me.”

The Huntsman had long ago taken his blade and carved a space for himself within the prince’s soul, life and body. Without him, it seemed that huge pieces of Theon’s being would simply cease to exist.

 _But I made_ **_you_ ** _too._

Before the war, the Huntsman was just an elevated demigod running his father’s errands. Since Theon, Ramsay’s worship, strength and renown had vastly expanded. The Prince had made him, for lack of a better word, more human in the eyes of the people, and ironically it was what cemented the Huntsman’s status as a prominent deity.

A cosmic truth of which all gods were deeply aware was that stories had power - and for better or worse, the mortals were going to know the story of the Lord Huntsman and the Driftwood Prince for centuries, perhaps even millennia to come.

* * *

**Winter 17**

The story of how the Driftwood Prince held up the night sky would be known as somber tale of duty and sacrifice, a cautionary tale against pride and irreverence.

Theon would remember it as the night he broke both his arms.

“You seem displeased. What’s wrong? I thought you wanted to be a _hero_.” Ramsay’s voice was dripping in condescension, eyes round with mock sympathy. “I’m a man of my word, prince. I’ve set your followers’ souls loose, unpursued and unmolested. If they can escape the realm before the moon sets, they’re free. And if they fail… I will teach you how to flay them.”

Theon could only snarl in response, straining beneath the weight that bore down across his shoulder blades. His whole body shook with the force of it, his remaining teeth grit so tight they threatened to crack. There wasn’t a single muscle in his body not at risk of tearing. The bone-grinding pressure of his knees was creating ripples of cracks in the floor.

Shards of ice and snow whipped through the air, stinging Theon’s exposed skin. He could see his breath curling through the air, he could feel the howling wind. From atop the highest tower of the Dreadfort, it sounded all the more like screams. Not that Theon could hear much with his own blood thrumming in his ears.

“Here I hoped you’d at last be man enough to apologize.” The Huntsman’s cloak flowed in the wind and snowflakes glittered in his dark locks. “We could have called this all a misunderstanding on your part. Silly me.”

“Apo-“ Theon was too compromised to even finish choking out the word. He mutely looked at the dark god in sheer bewilderment. _Apologize_?

“I was only defending your honor,” Ramsay said in the manner of what he probably thought innocence looked like. “You very rudely undermined me.”

Theon scowled and looked away, arms trembling weakly against the bitter chill. It had been foolish of him to think that his punishment for that was already done with.

The boastful human youth had been an exceptionally gifted archer, skilled with the bow to the point that some lauded him as better than the very god of the art. Theon was past taking offense at such things - it chafed, true, to have one of his few remaining points of pride diminished, but worse things were said about him in his own homeland. It helped that the mortal was indeed very good, and Theon had been content to leave him be.

The Lord Huntsman had not been. _If the human thinks he is a keener shot than the Driftwood Prince, surely I am no match,_ he had said before challenging the boy to a game. And no one ever won games against the Huntsman. It was all Theon could do to loose an arrow into the boy’s heart as the hellhounds descended.

“You had to know what happens to the souls I take, didn’t you?” Ramsay asked so sweetly, breath raising the hairs on the back of Theon’s neck. “They come out here. Every last one.”

Theon grimaced. He scanned the endless trappings of the dark forest and imagined the labyrinthian dungeons and caverns of torment that existed beneath it. The dread realm was a place of imprisonment, punishment and pain. The souls of his followers, even of that prideful boy, did not belong here.

“But you’re a strapping, _heroic_ , benevolent prince aren’t you? Don’t you want to save them?”

The great moon pressed down upon him, burning his skin with its cold light. His hands were continuously changing places and fumbling for grip, but no position was any more comfortable than the last. Straining his neck, he cast a wary eye to the skies above.

It was always night in the dread realm. Though the moon moved, waxed and waned across the dread realm’s sky, there was never a sun to accompany or replace it. All was usually eclipsed by snowstorm clouds anyway. Difficult as time could be in the dread realm, in that moment it must have been night in the overworld as well - and nearing dawn. Upon Theon’s shoulders the moon was a full and bright orb, intent on setting.

Ramsay placed his hands on Theon’s waist from behind.

“I won’t think less of you if you drop it,” he said lightly. “You did your best. You often do, don’t you? Not very impressively, but… it’s the thought that counts.”

Theon did not dignify that with a response. Ramsay did not much care; he mostly talked to hear his own voice anyways.

In the overworld the humans would be whispering to themselves about a night that stretched hours past its time. Why did the moon still linger, refusing the sink beneath the horizon? And the bards would sing that that the Driftwood Prince was carrying the sky on his shoulders, refusing to let the night cycle into day. Not until all of the blameless spirits had fled free from the dread realm.

Ramsay’s fingertips danced lightly down the arch of Theon’s spine. Pulling away was impossible, not with the weight of the night growing heavier with every passing minute. Any more and Theon feared his wrists would snap. Perhaps a titan could have turned the wheel of the sky forward and back at will, but Theon was just a pelagic god removed from the sea. The mere strain of holding the night in place had his vision going dark and blurry at the edges. He was at once both feverish with exertion and rattled by the cold.

“Shh,” Ramsay’s heavy hands ran freely across Theon’s skin. “Don’t let me distract you.”

“Hnn-“ Speaking was still too difficult. With every muscle at capacity there was no strength left to mobilize his vocal cords.

Ramsay’s curious fingers were finding greying bruises and half-mended scars, squeezing with impunity and scraping his nails over the damaged skin. Theon began to properly shake and convulse as his focus waned. His grasp was beginning to slip, his arms sliding into an increasingly unfavorable position.

The last thing Theon remembered was his arm bending the wrong way, followed by a stomach-turning _crack._ All of the burden shifted to his other arm, which tried to uselessly brace itself. The resulting _snap_ was milder, but Theon could still feel the vibrations of it. Waves fiery pain coursed up and down the full length of his arm.

The night slipped through his fingers and the moon sank beneath the horizon like a stone in water. As the dread realm was suddenly blanketed with an even deeper darkness than before, out in the overworld the humans were observing the slowly dawning sunrise.

Theon crumpled in pain and exhaustion. He must have blacked out, because he found himself dazedly blinking up at the Huntsman, head in the dark god’s lap. Ramsay, who had been at his back, must have caught him.

Those eyes, pale and bright at the stars, were watching him with unrestrained fascination and glee. Theon’s arms flopped, useless and limp and at odd angles, at his side. He couldn’t stop shaking, his body practically vibrating with nerves, pain and cold.

“Now that was really something,” Ramsay said, brushing Theon’s cold, sweat-soaked curls from his forehead. “I wonder how many of them made it out?”

Theon closed his eyes, desperate for unconsciousness to take him away once more. The agonizing fire in his arms made war with the freezing numbness everywhere else.

“Not that I expect you’ll be able to lift a knife for me anytime soon,” Ramsay snickered. “Or be able to do _anything_ without my help.”

He gave an experimental squeeze to Theon’s arm. The resulting scream of pain seared Theon’s throat.

“Well, no matter. We have time. I’ll take good care of you.”

* * *

**Present Day**

Not long after the Hunger Festival, Theon dreamt of a storm.

_He was standing at the bow of a great ship, rolling and tossing upon a vengeful ocean. His sister’s, but it seemed to have been completely abandoned at open sea. The waves washed atop the the tilting deck and rain fell in heavy sheets from dismal skies. Not even the screams of wind or crashing of water could fully drown out the bone-rattling creak of wood as the ship struggled to remain steady and intact._

_Theon swayed with the rocking of the ship, drenched to the skin with icy saltwater swirling about his ankles. Lightning cracked across the sky and illuminated more of the roiling deep. The turbulent winds were forming water spouts in the distance, funnels of water and cloud reaching from sea to sky. As the thunder roared in his ears he was filled with an unexplained and desperate need to find his sister._

_“Yara?” His voice was lost to the howl of the storm._

_Theon struggled to cross the deck but it was like crossing wet ice, his boots failing to find purchase. The ship gave another mighty groan, as if any minute is would be rent asunder. Panic rose in him as the waves mounted higher and higher. Theon did not fear being washed out - he could never fear the ocean - but something was **wrong** and his sister was still nowhere to be found._

_Lightning cracked again and in that brief flash of light he could see the gaping black eye of the storm, a ways off but approaching fast. A powerful gale ripped the billowing kraken flag from its post and flung it high into the whirling sky-_

Theon awoke with a strangled gasp, hands still reaching in search for his sister.

Even in the familiar tangle of Ramsay’s sheets he could still smell the tang of the sea. It lingered in his nose and on his skin. Ramsay shifted with a sleepy grunt, his body heavy and warm against Theon’s side.

The fire had burned down to the embers. The logs still popped and crackled as they collapsed piece by piece into ash. Theon briefly curled in tighter, seeking heat and respite from the tremors wracking his body. The feeling of unease did not abate.

The beginning of a new era was something that he had experienced only once before, when the Primordial Era of titans gave way to the Natal Era of the gods. The earth had once been young, and its powers both vast and wild, a place where living forces of nature and cosmic beings walked the land. The Great War had put an end to it, and the Natal Era marked a period of rebuilding and growth. The survivors had all quickly fallen into their new patterns, most of which were governed by the turn of the seasons: Robb’s winter sleep, Yara’s battle with Euron, Jon’s defense against the wights, Theon’s dance with Ramsay…

Whether the gods had all collectively caused this turning of the page, or it was the birth of the new era that had allowed them to break free of their old patterns, was a paradox with no answer. It came with an indescribable yet tangible shift in the air. It was as if the world was standing on a knife’s edge, about to teeter over into an uncertain abyss as everything was about to change.

Ramsay would feel it too when he woke up. Would he be bothered? The happenings of the outside world rarely had any impact on the dread realm, save for the amount of incoming new souls. He certainly wouldn’t care for any ill omens Theon had dreamt - especially where Yara was concerned.

Perhaps it had only been a bad dream. Theon certainly had plenty of those. It had just felt so real, and when combined with what he felt in his bones to be the shift into a new time… he couldn’t fight his instinct. He needed to find his sister.

Theon slowly rolled upright, kicking free of what covers remained in place. Ramsay’s arm was a stubborn weight around his waist. Even in sleep he refused to give Theon an ounce of freedom. With spring soon to come and storm clouds brewing even closer on the horizon than that, it posed a problem.

 _Not that it’s news,_ Theon thought as Ramsay, still asleep, instinctually tried to pull him back to his side.

Theon oh so gently slid himself free and began to search for his discarded clothes. Ramsay was probably going to finally boil him alive for this, but such was the heavy price for preventing something worse.

* * *

**Winter 24(?)**

The frigid air of the Dreadfort was somehow even colder alongside the current of the Weeping Water. It was a cursed river that linked the overworld, the dread realm, and the even deeper underworlds below. Theon had never known water to carry such malice.

The waterwheel creaked and groaned as it sat in the icy current, the damn thing practically shaped from ice itself. It was connected to what appeared to be a mill, though Theon knew better. Nothing was as it seemed in the dread realm. If one wandered the dark woods long enough they were bound to fall into any one of innumerable traps or cruel games.

Jeyne was merely latest victim of The Huntsman’s whims. The wintry sylph had descended to the dread realm to barter for the release of her father’s spirit. Ramsay had been in a playful mood that day, as the fresh brands on Theon’s skin would attest, so instead of dispatching her outright he had offered her a series of impossible tasks to complete.

Theon had helped where he could - when she was appointed with cleaning the hellhounds’ kennels, he had given her rags bearing his scent, which allowed her to go among the beasts unmauled. When she was tasked with sorting lentils from wheat in the kitchens, he had sent the rats to aid her. Now she had been ordered to mill a month’s worth of wheat in a single night.

Theon stood before the mill, watching the weak flow of frigid water tumble across black rocks. The current, and thus the water wheel, were slow to move due to the river being almost entirely frozen over.

Theon felt hands settling on his shoulders and a warm chest against his back. His whole body went rigid. Ramsay had always been touchy - it was a largely unintentional, unconscious quirk of his, as apparently the Dread Lord had never taught his son the importance of personal space. In recent years however it had become far more… deliberate. It wasn’t even the lecherous, carnal contact Theon was used to. His rapes had always been as much about mockery and domination as actual lust.

Recent winters had seen Ramsay implementing a lot more intentional, lingering, and almost curious touches. Theon wearily watched as black-gloved hands rubbed up and down his arms.

“I’d like to see you wriggle out of this one,” Ramsay said. “It’s truly endearing, how hard you’re trying.”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, my lord,” Theon said. “This game is between you and the sylph.”

“Sure it is.” Ramsay rest his chin on Theon’s shoulder. “There’s no need for dishonesty between us, is there? Not after all this time. You can admit you’ve been helping the wench cheat.”

“You never barred her from receiving help.”

“Be glad I’m entertained,” Ramsay said lowly as he pressed pointedly into one of the brands, thumb finding its mark perfectly even through Theon’s thin clothes. “I’m quite curious to see what you’ll do next.”

Theon grimaced but refused to comment. “Why is this even here?”

“Sentimental value. I don’t suppose you know how mills work,” Ramsay said callously. “With the water so iced over, she won’t get far. The water turns the wheel which then turns the grindstone inside.”

“… Is that all?”

A huff. “Well _no,_ but while I could explain to you what a rotary system is I promise I’d be very cross with you by the end of it.”

“So how…”

Ramsay must have realized when Theon found his answer, feeling it in the way the prince suddenly went slack with resignation.

“What? What are you going to do, charm the ice into melting? Not with that broken smile of yours.”

Theon lightly shrugged Ramsay off his shoulders before trudging through the snow and into the mill. Jeyne was there, wringing her hands and anxiously eyeing the sacks of unmilled wheat that had been piled high before her.

“I think I could figure it out, but if the wheel won’t turn I can’t do anything,” Jeyne said, her deep eyes growing wet.

She had become so pale and thin so quickly since coming to the dread realm. It was as if the air itself were sapping the life and light out of her. She had only eaten the scraps that could be smuggled to her cell, and Theon had warned her against eating apples from the trees that blossomed along the shore of the Weeping Water. The fruit was cursed; anyone who ate it would find their spirit consigned to the dread realm forever. Even if they lived virtuously and died with honor, in death their soul would flow down the Weeping Water and never see the overworld again.

“He hasn’t made you eat them?” Jeyne had asked, turning her hungry eyes away.

“Not yet. He doesn’t plan on killing me anytime soon.”

Now Jeyne hugged herself against the chill, even within the shelter of the old building. The girl had been so brave and selfless to make such a perilous journey. Theon knew how it felt to be in similar shoes: trapped, harassed and friendless in this cruel and savage place.

“I will handle the wheel. Just keep the grain flowing and we will see it done.”

“But how-“

“Trust me.”

And oh, what a funny feeling it was to say those words. Even more, to see the warmth and faith in another’s eyes in response. Jeyne looked at him with an expression that caused Theon’s chest to seize up. It was indescribable, to realize that someone did actually trust him. How beautiful and terrible, an honor and burden, to the point that he could drown in it.

Strengthened in his resolve, Theon exited the mill. Ramsay was still outside, looking at him with a brow irritably raised.

“Back so soon? The water is still iced over, I see. I don’t-“

Theon ignored him and circled around to the side of the mill, edging along the snowy riverbank.

Perhaps he could not thaw the river, but he could turn the wheel. Manually.

“What do you-“ Ramsay laughed in disbelief. “Oh you’re not serious-“

Theon waded into the river with curses on the back of his tongue. The water was even harsher than it had looked and may as well have been little more than freshly melted ice. His remaining teeth were grit so tightly that he was liable to crack and lose them too.

His breeches were logged with frigid water but he refused to regret his decision, even though he could feel Ramsay smugly watching him from the river shore. The wheel was slick and painfully cold to the touch, but fortunately it was so large that once Theon managed to get inside it, he was at little risk of falling out again.

It took a few pushes and forceful leverage to crack the wheel free from the crust of ice that had begun to encase it. Once it was done, it was relatively simple to forcefully walk the thing into motion. He could feel the vibrations and hear the groans of mechanisms within the mill beginning to turn.

“And they call _me_ the mad god,” Ramsay was pacing up and down the shore like an intrigued hound. “Exactly how long do you expect to keep this up?”

Theon continued to ignored him. It was mind-numbing, exhausting work made all the worse by the freezing conditions. His hands quickly turned red, fingertips stinging from the cold as he grasped the dripping wheel for balance.

“You plan to stay there the whole day?” Theon grunted, struggling to maintain his speed. He barely had the air to speak, the words escaping his chest as little more than a wheeze.

“Maybe. Maybe not. Don’t want you breaking my mill.”

Theon glared in response, resuming his task with pained determination. He would continue as long as he had to on this endless, resistant wheel, dripping with frost and ice water. Less than an hour would kill a mortal man, but despite the pain Theon could manage it. Counting the seconds would drive him mad, especially since time was rather uncooperative in the dread realm. The only thing to do was continue to walk.

It was almost inevitable that Theon would slip and lose his grip, toppling into the icy river. The wheel lurched and almost immediately the mechanisms inside began to slow and lose momentum. He clambered from the water and desperately grabbed the sides of the wheel with his hands, using all his meager weight to resume its rotation. The creaking of unseen mechanisms resumed.

“Now that looked painful,” Ramsay’s voice called. “Careful now.”

His skin was soaked and clammy with water and cold sweat but he carried on. His body shook with effort; hands numb, arms weak and thighs burning from their labor. He hadn’t been in the best state to begin with after such long nights in the Huntsman’s dungeon, suffering the weight of the dark god’s scorn.

He wouldn’t know if Ramsay stuck around for all of it, or if he came and went at leisure. Occasionally Theon thought he heard the rustle of hellhounds in the snow and footsteps through the brush, but it could have easily been some sort of delirium.

Theon couldn’t tell which of his shudders came from the exhaustion or the cold. He had never felt such spite for water in his life - he loved water, he lived and died by the sea’s mercy - but the constant sloshing, dripping and sluicing of the Weeping Water’s glacial tide was turning his skin blue and his heart black.

“Tired?” Ramsay’s voice came uncomfortably close. Theon flinched and risked a glance upwards to see the man lounging out of a mill window. “Aw. I thought you wanted to show me what a big, strong man you are.”

Theon hissed, his slick palms struggling to keep their grip. He tried to adjust his stance but it was barely possible without risking another fall. It felt like his bones were creaking to the same extent as the old wheel beneath him.

“You look exhausted,” Ramsay continued, watching him with half lidded eyes. “Are you sure you don’t want to give up? It’s warm indoors. I’ll give you my cloak and we can watch your lady weep over her father’s skin. Come on. It’ll be fun. Liberating, even.”

Theon glowered at his unfeeling hands and continued to fight the wheel step by agonizing step. He was beginning to feel worryingly detached from his body. Breathing was painful, his feet and ankles were all but overcome with stabbing pain, his thighs were aflame and he was sure that any minute now his knees would finally fail him.

Ramsay snorted. “ _Fine._ ”

The window swung shut. Theon only hoped Ramsay wasn’t harassing Jeyne too severely inside. He had an optimistic feeling that she could be just as resilient in her work as him and more.

Just one more step, he thought to himself, and then one more. Maybe he couldn’t make it to the end, but he could make one more step.

It continued on. Time would have lost all meaning if it had one to begin with. Theon began to forget what it felt like to be warm and dry. There was only the sloshing water, the gelid chill, and the stinging pain of being pierced by innumerable icy needles throughout his body.

“Alright, now I’m bored.”

The wheel stopped seemingly of its own accord, causing Theon to topple forward from his momentum. He must have been a sad sight, flailing and flopping weakly into the water. Immediately his muscles turned to ice beneath his skin, tensing up to the point of being locked into place. Freshwater filled Theon’s lungs and he couldn’t help but abstractly think he’d never drowned like _this_ before.

Of course it was not to be. Strong hands hauled him from the waist-deep water and discarded him roughly to the snowy bank.

“The grain is through, fool. You’ve been on that thing all night.”

All night? Theon looked at the sky of the dread realm, which was as pitch black as ever. How the hell was he supposed to know?

“I can’t move.” Frankly he was amazed he could even speak. The words escaped him like a death rattle.

“I know,” Ramsay said, amused. “Once the numbing wears off you’re in for a bad time of it.”

“What else is new.” His voice was little more than a breathy exhale.

Ramsay looked down at him with an odd sort of consideration. He kneeled over Theon’s body, knees bracketing him in the snow. If Ramsay tried to fuck him now he wouldn’t fight. He didn’t have the energy. At least in the state he was in, Theon wasn’t likely to feel it either.

Instead Ramsay only looked at him and swept the wet bangs from Theon’s face.

“You’re a funny creature, you know?” He said, pale eyes distant and calculating.

Theon didn’t know what to say to that. It certainly felt like something was happening. Something significant was passing behind those winter eyes.

He just didn’t know what it was.

“Theon!” The moment was broken when Jeyne dashed out of the mill. “I did it! We did it! Oh my lord, are you alright?”

With barely functioning limbs he reached for her, tangling their frail fingers together. She was tearing up in gratitude and relief, and something in Theon’s chest swelled. He would never be used to someone looking at him like that, after everything he’d done and become. In Jeyne’s eyes he was noble. A hero. He looked back at her and couldn’t feel anything but overwhelming fondness.

Ramsay’s grip on him flexed and tightened. “Yes, you cheated your way through another task. Bully for you.”

Jeyne’s expression soured, overtaken by suspicion and doubt. “So the next one-”

“No more. You’re done.” Ramsay snapped his fingers. “Take your father’s soul get out. The lot of you have been cluttering my realm long enough.”

Jeyne scowled and looked back down at Theon. “What about him? I won’t leave without hi-“

Ramsay snapped his fingers again, and instantly Jeyne disappeared with the wind. He scoffed in disgust.

“Good riddance. She was dreadfully boring, don’t you think?” Ramsay cradled Theon’s cold and limp form to his chest. “A third wheel to our games is so unnecessary.”

Theon tried to keep the despair off his face. It was a glad thing that Jeyne had managed to succeed and get free. He had never imagined that they would escape the realm together but he would miss her all the same. Having a friend and ally had been pleasant. He would also miss the person she clearly imagined him to be: the gallant and selfless martyr he could play the part of when she was watching.

Ramsay slapped him none too gently. “Pay attention and look at me.”

Theon did, shelving his memories of Jeyne in a safe place before closing the door on them. Ramsay was looking down on him with an affronted expression.

“Did she make you feel good about yourself, prince? I hope it was worth it.” Ramsay pulled him up and out of the snow, always so much stronger than he looked. “I’m sure we’ll find a way to warm you in sweet Jeyne’s absence.”

* * *

**Present Day**

Theon had never successfully left the Dreadfort so early before. It was still the middle of winter and the lack of resistance he experienced as he rode across the underworld’s border was eerie. Ever since the union, the denizens of the realm had been uncertain of how to regard him. Most opted for ignoring him entirely. He may have been their master’s “spouse” now, but they all knew his truth. Even now, the prince was not a free man and he held no authority.

The snow-coated earth rolled beneath him at inhuman speed as he hurtled ever further west, a bow strapped to his back. By the time Theon reached the west coast his fear had become a solid, tangible thing in his gut. For as far as he could see the waves were thrashing like a living thing, churning under cover of endless crackling storm clouds.

Yara’s war with their uncle was at its climax. Through the entirety of the Natal Era, she and Euron had been locked in endless stalemate, with her reigning supreme through spring and summer only to weaken under his assault in autumn and winter. Her eventual victory had always been certain, but they were in a new era now. Cycles were being broken and a new order was being established.

Yara was losing.

Theon stole a boat from the port, his unpracticed hands fumbling at the rope and knots as he was tossed and thrown across the waves. The air was so cold it stung, and the scent of saltwater and electrified air was heavy around him. Further and further he sailed, heading into the eye of the storm. Where his uncle was sure to be.

Theon had been taken captive by Euron once before. It had been mid-autumn and he had tried to run back to the islands, attempting to strike a compromise between doing his duty and getting out before the Hunter’s Moon. But Theon couldn’t think about that now, or he’d risk losing his nerve.

A speck on the horizon grew ever larger as Theon sailed further and further out onto the turbulent open sea. As he got closer the shape of his sister’s ship became more and more clear. The Black Wind was a glorious vessel, massive, with billowing ebony sails emblazoned with the Queen Reaper’s sigil.

She was dead in the water. Not a single member of the crew was in sight. The winds of the storm buffeted the unmanned ship upon the raging water, and yet she was also eerily still without a soul to sail her. Lightning cracked in the distance, drawing Theon’s eye to the horizon. An outcropping of rock that could only generously be called an island had nearly gone unseen, masked as it was by a swirling curtain of cloud and sea spray.

Theon slicked the drenched curls from his brow and turned his little boat’s sail in its direction. He had never considered himself a brave man; men who entered danger were only brave when they had something to lose. Theon did not know what awaited him in the eye of the storm. He lived with enumerable regrets, but leaving his sister to an uncertain fate would not be one. She had come to his aid so many times - it was only fair that just once, he could try and come to hers.

* * *

**Autumn** ~~**31** ~~ **~~32~~?** **_33_**

One would think Theon had learned his lesson about trying to avoid the Wild Hunt.

He had learned that leaving the mainland for autumn entirely was out of the question, but what was keeping him in the northlands for the Hunger Moon? Surely he could do his duty, and then a week before Ramsay’s arrival, slip onto a boat home?

He had failed to account for what would be waiting for him. By late autumn Yara and Euron were already at each other’s throats, making war through vicious storms and crushing waves, wind and surf churning and gnashing like teeth. Theon had walked right in the middle of their conflict and been easily intercepted en route to his sister’s palace.

“Oh, Little Theon. You really should know better than to get involved in adult affairs.”

Clouds crackled and growled outside the portholes of Euron’s great skyship. Theon glowered bitterly at the heavy irons that adorned his wrists. He was sick of spending so much of his life in bondage. The side of his face was still throbbing from being repeatedly struck and the cut under his eye was stinging. Breathing was a task; Euron may well have damaged one or two of Theon’s ribs.

Upon being captured he had fought and struggled as fiercely as he ever did, with about the usual rate of success. His ears tracked the measured steps of his uncle’s boots treading behind and around him, lazily circling like a shark. Hands threaded through Theon’s hair to tilt his head up. Euron looked down at him, one eye bright blue and the other black as pitch.

The Crow’s Eye was the devil that islanders feared above all others. A creature of malice and chaos, but one who also wielded his charm and wit as wickedly as any weapon. He was equal parts handsome and off-putting, smiling his secret smiles and shifting the air in a room with every movement.

“How long has it been, nephew? So many years since I saw you last, and now look at you. You’re nearly a man.”

Theon’s brow ticked. ‘Nearly’?

Euron smiled. Then his gaze turned contemplative.

“I’ve heard all sorts of _interesting_ things about you. They say a mainland half-breed made you his bed slave. Among other things.” Euron looked him over. “Your sister cleans you up, I see. Protective as always. Apparently she’s quite upset to hear that we’re spending time together.”

Theon perked up. Yara knew he’d been captured. He had no idea what good that would do, stranded as he was in the clouds, but it was something.

“My quarrel is not with you,” Euron said, fingertips ghosting over the bruises and scratches adorning Theon’s body. “You don’t want to fight me, do you Theon?”

Theon looked at him with tired eyes. “Whether I fight you or not, you will hurt me all the same.”

“That’s right,” Euron said warmly. “Just as much as necessary.”

Theon wasn’t impressed. “That’s what he would say as well. But he never meant it. By the time we started he’d already made his mind up about what he would do.”

“Is that so?” Euron carded his nails along Theon’s scalp. “… You know nephew, now that I have you here after all these years, there’s something I can’t quite put my finger on.”

“Oh?”

“Hm. You never looked much like Balon, did you?”

Theon recoiled slightly, both surprised and a little insulted. “What-“

“Everyone said you took after your mother, what with you always clinging to her skirts. Always the sweet one.” Euron gently stroked Theon’s cheek. “But in truth, you rather remind me of Urri.”

Theon blinked. His uncle Urrigon had died so long ago that it was often forgotten he’d existed at all.

“Yes, that’s what it is. He had curls like yours. Seawater eyes like yours…” Euron chuckled. “I thought he was sweet too.”

A horrible unease was beginning to take shape in Theon’s stomach. He had heard the rumors of various horrors that Euron had done, the things he was capable of. Even to family. _Especially_ to family.

His uncle’s sharp grip turned into a playful ruffle of Theon’s hair. Then a weathered hand moved along his cheek to gently trace his jaw. He barely held in a shudder.

“He was my favorite brother, you know,” Euron said gently. “The youngest and softest of us. It was such a loss.”

“I…” He swallowed, trying to keep his voice level. “I never knew him.”

“No, of course not. But you have his likeness in more ways than one.”

Finally Euron straightened and pulled away, allowing Theon to breathe a slight sigh of relief. His uncle man strode to the nearby table and began to pour himself a glass of indigo liquor. Theon watched him warily from the floor.

Being his uncle’s captive was uncomfortably personal in a way that being kept by Ramsay wasn’t. Euron had known Theon from infancy onward, they shared a homeland and a family. Those ties created a terrible familiarity and intrinsic understanding that he and Ramsay would never achieve.

“So the rumors are true, then,” Euron said, attention as capricious as ever. “Little Theon sacrifices himself to the beast every winter. You always were softhearted - I remember you used to pick up beached starfish and cry into your mother’s lap when there wasn’t time to save them all.”

Theon frowned. Not only had no one called him softhearted since his father died, he didn’t remember anything of the sort. It made him deeply uncomfortable to think that Euron might know things about him that he didn’t know himself.

He focused on his shackled hands. The polished floor of the captain’s quarters were hard on his knees, but he’d had worse. He felt the skyship rocking beneath him and tried to convince himself it was the tossing and turning of the sea.

“You know that they are,” he said sullenly. “The rumors, I mean. He’s been taking me for years now.”

Euron smirked into his chalice. “You must find him very charming.”

Theon glared murderously. “I don’t want it. Obviously, since I’m here.”

“I’m surprised your sister lets you run wild with a record like yours. Of course I was surprised by what Aeron let Urrigon get away with too, back then,” Euron said mildly. “The solution seems obvious to me: neither the Huntsman nor your guilt can find you from within a brig, can they?”

Theon anxiously sucked on his bottom lip, then immediately stopped when he saw his uncle’s eye hone in on the motion. Euron smiled unkindly.

“So tell me what he does every winter. Your Huntsman.”

 _He’s not_ **_my_ ** _Huntsman._

Theon had no idea why Euron cared to know. Did he think it was funny? He certainly seemed entertained, looking down upon his nephew like some type of specimen.

“He rapes me.” Theon’s voice wavered. He had never actually said the words aloud, always dodging the issue with Yara or outright lying about it to Robb. “He chases me down and takes me in the snow, alright?”

Euron’s eye flashed. “You give him a fight?”

“Of course.” Theon’s eyes lowered in shame. “But he’s stronger than me.”

Euron hummed, pleased. “Go on.”

Theon couldn’t help but squirm a bit under his uncle’s heavy gaze. Euron was all but looming over him.

“Does he let his men have you?”

Theon dug his nails into his palms in an attempt to steady himself. “He’s let them hurt me. Or touch me. He doesn’t want them fucking me but… ”

Dark memories seeped in of being used and soiled, the space between his legs dripping from where the boys had rutted between his thighs. That hadn’t happened in a while, however. Not since long ago, in the most early winters.

“And he hurts you. Creatively, I’m told.”

“Yes.” Theon looked down at himself, bare to the waist and pale in the low light, bruises all the more stark in contrast. “He’s taken just about everything at least once. Every toe, every finger, every tooth, every inch of skin. He took one of my eyes once, near the beginning, for shooting one of his hounds. I’ve been flayed, burned, whipped, beaten. Violated in every way. Is that what you want to hear?”

His uncle must have been in a fine mood, for he continued to look more amused than affronted by Theon’s attitude. Ramsay would have given him another beating by now. Probably strapped him to the mast for a whipping in the rain whilst the crew watched and storms raged.

“Well,” Euron said, drifting over once more, “You may be the weakest of your siblings, but you’re certainly the most interesting. I always thought you might be.”

Theon looked at him oddly. Was that meant to be a compliment?

“The Huntsman’s interest is fair enough, if I gauge his tastes true. I wager you suffer quite nicely.” Euron was so close now that the whisper of his breathing was sending chills down Theon’s neck. “That’s another thing you and Urri had in common.”

It too Theon a beat too long to realize the implications of those words. He lunged to the side at about the same time Euron grabbed hold, strong arms clamping around him.

“No! No, no-“ Theon struggled and twisted, feet scraping and tumbling across the floor. “Uncle-“

“Urrigon had a hard time too, the first night,” Euron said calmly. “Of course he was younger than you are now, so I’m expecting a little more of you.”

Theon almost didn’t hear him, he was damn near deaf with the rush of blood roaring in his ears. The chains on his wrists jangled and dragged as he kicked and thrashed. Instincts were at war in his brain. He wanted to struggle free, but Ramsay had always trained him to whimper and take it. ‘Like a good bitch’, he’d say, and there was also only ever so much a man could do on his hands and knees with a cock in him, least of all without hurting his own self worse in the process.

Suddenly Euron was holding his chalice to Theon’s lips. Midnight potion flowed down Theon’s throat and sloshed down the sides of his mouth, its scent thick and intoxicating. Theon choked on it, the strange taste of the elixir mixing with blood in his mouth. Immediately it felt as if the floor had dropped from under him, casting him into freefall.

Thunder rolled and Theon felt it shaking his very marrow. Outside the ship the storm was everywhere, swallowing him. Within, its titan intended to make a meal of his flesh in a different way. Theon was vividly aware that Euron’s true body was the raging sky itself - the turbulent clouds swollen with icy rain, coursing with lightning and unleashing devastating winds like warhammer blows. The titan’s power crackled through the air and in his blood. Theon was but a leaf caught in the hurricane’s fury.

When he came relatively back to his senses he was lying in the captain’s bed, the air in the cabin cold against his freshly bared skin. His body felt so, so heavy, but his mind was floating. The soft give of the mattress did nothing to help ground him.

 _Ramsay wouldn’t have done that,_ Theon thought deliriously.

The Huntsman would have grasped him by the hair and slammed him face-first into the floor. Once the darkness cleared, Theon would find himself lying in a sticky pool of blood as it dribbled freely from his nose and puddled across his cheek, and Ramsay would have taken him just like that in the mess. Theon would weep and endure, fixate on the grain of the wood floor and watch as his blood settled and dried in the grooves. It was a familiar scene. Being laid gently down in a bed was not.

Theon grimaced at the feeling of his cheeks being crudely spread, followed by a slick finger being forced inside of him. The movements were more playful than preparation.

“This is rather nostalgic,” Euron was saying. “He was tight too. I must have been his first. The same can’t be said of you, of course.”

“Uncle-“ Theon grit his teeth.

“What is it?” Euron asked kindly, continuing to toy with Theon’s insides. “Is this where he has you beg?”

Theon squirmed. “I don’t. He doesn’t like it.”

Not without permission, anyway. Asking anything of Ramsay or tying to get out of punishment only warranted more pain. Ramsay liked a fight or he liked total submission depending on his mood (which could change between moments). For Theon to weep but endure in resigned suffering was his favorite. Groveling often seemed to bore him, and anyone who expected the Huntsman to grant mercy just because you tearfully asked for it didn’t know the man at all.

“I see. Well don’t hold back on my account,” Euron said, withdrawing his fingers. “It makes no difference to me.”

Theon swallowed down another mouthful of iron and bile. He felt the cockhead pressing against his rim and fervently told himself that this was nothing. He’d been down this road before. He’d had worse. It was nothing.

“Don’t shut me out now,” Euron crooned. He grabbed Theon by the chin, tilting his head back into the pillows to force eye contact.

Another difference between Euron and Ramsay: while Ramsay raped Theon for pleasure as much as power, it was plain in Euron’s manner that sex was not where his true interests lay. It was tangential.

His uncle - no, Theon’s stomach lurched his nausea. He couldn’t think that word right now. The less he thought of the blood he and his captor shared, the better. Euron took his time, his rhythm sure but unhurried. Not like Ramsay, who was all feral passion and animal hunger.

With Theon’s mind hazy and scrambled the physical took the floor. He was evermore aware of the sharp ache in his neck, the throbbing of bruises and lacerations on his skin, the burn of Euron’s hard cock sliding in and out of his body. The awful slick sounds of it and the wet gasps of Theon’s breathing filled the cabin, accompanied by the groaning of the ship and shrill howling of storm winds.

Occasionally there was a press to that spot deep inside, but aside from a jolt to his nerves Theon remained flaccid. Ramsay had eventually learned how to force him to arousal and erection, even to climax. Euron seemed to want something other than Theon’s humiliation: to feed his curiosity on what his nephew had become, and to indulge his nostalgia for violating someone that was long lost.

“Oh yes, you’ve certainly done this before. God of salt marriage indeed,” Euron said, shifting his hips to aim for Theon’s prostate. “You’ve got the same look in your eyes as an old whore.”

Theon only tearfully glared at where his bleary vision approximated Euron’s face to be, trying to smother each wince and flinch from every pointed thrust. He twisted and writhed, shooting daggers with his eyes. His blunt nails clawed and scraped across the sheets. He was impatient for it to be over, but Euron was spitefully taking his time.

“Your father thought you the fragile one. But how would your brothers have held up, I wonder?” A laugh. “How would _he_ have held up? Perhaps I should have found out before I killed him.”

Theon inhaled sharply through his teeth. “You’re insane.”

“You overburden yourself with these moral quandaries of yours. Have they not caused you enough trouble?”

Theon’s breathing became shallow. Colors were beginning to burn brighter in his vision and the candlelight in the chamber had acquired an unearthly aura. Intoxication was seeping through the layers of his resolve - he soon couldn’t stop the whimpers and whines from escaping his throat.

“There we are,” Euron’s words sounded distorted and echoic, speaking with the voice of a thousand howling winds. “Now you’re acting like Urri.”

Time dilated. Theon was vaguely aware of Euron handling him, pulling him closer so their thighs were flush together. The pace quickened, grinding against that bundle of nerves and sensation that Theon had come to resent, but the poor preparation was not enough to ease the way. Theon was no stranger to experiencing an unholy mix of pain with pleasure and then leaning into whichever suited his partner’s tastes at the time - but his mind was too scattered to go through its usual defensive motions.

“Please,” Theon said desperately, too far gone to care about using that forbidden word. “Please stop. It hurts.”

Euron shushed him, lips laying tender kisses to Theon’s wet eyes before pressing to the crown of his brow.

“I know,” he said softly. “I know.”

It didn’t stop. It didn’t get better. Ramsay would have finished by now. Euron continued to rock into him in time with the swaying of the ship. Theon felt like a little dingy being bounced and pulled by the sea. Then there was a flood of wet heat, and a firm hand came around to grasp him betwixt his legs, and his mind went blank.

It took Theon a while to realize it was over. He continued to lie in the silken sheets, his body sore and tacky and shamed.

“Blood and seed suit you, nephew.” Euron said gently, still seated within him. “I suppose there is some accounting for the Huntsman’s taste after all.”

Theon groaned miserably. Another roll of thunder purred through the ship, but it was milder, sated. Theon didn’t know what to do but stay down, his body damp with sweat and bruises evermore lurid in the candlelight. He, caught within the storm, and the storm itself still sheathed inside of him. As if the pair were occupying the same space.

It would be another week before Yara came for him. In the ensuing melee Euron had sooner launched Theon back to the mainland than allowed the Driftwood Prince and Queen Reaper to be united.

At the time Theon had taken it for spite. Perhaps there had been another reason.

* * *

**Present Day**

Theon almost didn’t make it to the rock.

Scarcely more than an outcropping for seals and gulls to congregate and breed, it had turned into a battlefield of vicious waves and impenetrable whirlwinds. Theon’s boat cracked and fractured under the force of the storm, but the water would not take him under. It carried him and his glorified raft to its destination, bobbing him up and down the cresting waves like a buoy until he was finally cast ashore onto the rocks.

Theon clambered up the jagged stone, clothes thoroughly drenched through with his bow grasped in one hand. The winds were strong but bearable enough to remain standing. When he looked up he saw the gaping eye of the storm directly overhead: the nexus of whirling cloud, wind and seaspray that funneled around them.

It didn’t take long to find his family. Their battle was at the center of it all. Every time Yara’s axe made contact with Euron’s sword, it was punctuated by another crack of lightning or crashing wave. They made war with the elements as much as their steel.

Both of them were dripping in rain and ichor, but Yara had blood staining the whole front of her shirt. She fought so fiercely that one might hope the blood was not largely her won, but Theon could see the pain in her movements. Winter was soon to end and Yara was buckling under Euron’s onslaught.

Theon clambered up the slick stone and as he made it over the incline he caught Euron’s eye. Lightning streaked across the heavens, followed by a resounding explosion in the distance. He said something that to Theon’s ears was lost in the squall, but Yara turned seek his gaze.

“Theon, what the hell are you-“

The glint of Euron’s steel corresponded with another bolt of lightning, and it flashed down just as quick. Yara raised her axe and managed to deflect it by a hair; instead of taking her head off the stroke cut a long slash down the down the line of her collar.

Theon was running for her without a plan of what to do when he got there, bow at the ready and sopping boots skidding through tangles of beached seaweed and ankle-deep pools of rainwater.

By the time he was within ten paces, Euron already had Yara in a hold, his sword held to her lazily bleeding throat.

“Your timing is as fortunate as ever, nephew,” Euron said, voice carried and clear on the winds. “I’m glad. Though it would have been amusing to greet you in sweet Yara’s place come spring, perhaps this is for the best. For your closure.”

Theon’s bow was heavy but comfortable in his hands, arrow drawn with practiced ease.

“Let her go, uncle.”

“The new age is upon us,” Euron said with a sweeping gesture. “It’s time to finish what we started. You would know, wouldn’t you? I can smell the eastern salt on your skin from here.”

Theon looked to Yara, who was eyeing him through sharp but tired eyes. He could tell her fingers were itching for the dagger hidden beneath her shirt, but with the sword at her throat the move was more likely to get her killed.

Theon tried to communicate to her with his eyes. _Do you trust me?_

He could see where she faltered. An agonizing second passed before her hand went slack. _Yes._

“The last of Balon’s children,” Euron mused. “And how differently you’ve grown. Sweet Yara has to die I’m afraid, but there’s no need for this to be even more unpleasant. Go back to your Huntsman, Little Theon. You belong on the mainland now.”

“Perhaps,” Theon said. “But you don't belong here either.”

It was a fast draw and an even quicker release. No lining his shot, no counting his breaths. The arrow’s fletching brushed against Yara’s hair before burying itself into Euron’s black eye.

Immediately it felt like the earth had exploded - lighting fired down from the sky in all directions, for a moment lighting up the world to the blaze of day - the crash of it was deafening, clouds roiling with wind and thunder.

Theon was blown off his feet. Waves of pebbles, seaweed and sand washed over him. Rain came down from the clouds like water wrung from a dish towel, hammering them in its torrential downpour. Winds howled in his uncle’s enraged voice, whipping around them as if they stood within the heart of a tornado.

Then with a final, cataclysmic crack, the storm broke.

Rain lessened to a light patter. Winds calmed. The skies remained grey, but the clouds were flat and thin. Empty.

“Is he…?”

Yara shook her head slowly. “I don’t think so. But he’s hurt. Worse than he’s ever been. It’ll take longer than three seasons for him to recover from that, for certain.”

Theon felt shamefully relieved. Hateful as his uncle was, he didn’t want to be a kinslayer on top of everything else.

She turned to face him, her skin pale and ichor still dripping down her front, but her eyes as steely as ever.

“What have you done, Theon?”

He knew she wasn’t talking about Euron.

“I had no choice.”

“Like hell you had no choice!” Yara shouted, waves throwing themselves upon the rocks. “You always had a choice. But you’re a stupid, stubborn cunt and you have _never_ let me protect you, never! And now I _can’t!_ You’re one of them now!”

“I know.”

“You think they care about you!? Are you that fucking desperate? Fuck, it’s always the same goddamn story - you groveling around and begging to be loved, no matter how many times people chew you up and spit you out again!”

Yara was working herself into a lather, heedless of how it was reopening her wounds. Theon tried to reach out and steady her only to be slapped away. The ocean’s rage had dampened greatly since Euron’s defeat, tired and spent, but waves still pummeled the rock in fits.

“Was I not family enough for you, Theon? I’m so _sorry_ that I wasn’t a conniving, heartless bastard of a man you could snivel after for approval. Would have saved us all the trouble!” She snapped. “Are you sick? Are you insane? What the actual blazing fuck is _wrong_ with you!?”

Theon wrung his hands along the curve of his bow, his eyes lowered.

“I don’t know. I’m sorry. I had to, I- Yara I love you, I do. And I’ve tried to be what you wanted, I wanted it to, to be only pelagic… but I’m not. That’s not what I am.” Even with his face wet with rainwater, he could tell he was crying by the hot tracks running down his cheek. “That life was taken away a long time ago, and I know you tried to give it back to me but you can’t. I’m on a different path now.”

He dared to glance up as her footsteps drew near. Her face was still set in anger and disapproval, but he knew she could see the truth for what it was.

“You _are_ my family,” he said. “I owe you so much. I really wish it hadn’t turned out this way.”

Yara sighed, hands rising to cup his face.

“There’s a sea inside your eyes,” she said quietly. “… but it’s not my sea, is it. It never was.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Stop saying that. I understand if the eastern sea is your fate. That’s you and yours and I’m glad for it.” Her eyes darkened. “But it’s not just that, is it. It’s _him._ ”

“… We made a deal.”

“You signed yourself away.”

Theon looked away. “I was already his regardless.”

Yara scowled. “I’ll kill him.”

“You won’t.”

“No, I will. Maybe not now, maybe not in fifty years. But I will. I’m going to slit his throat and toss his body into your sea,” Yara said with grim determination. “Don’t ask me to let this farce stand, Theon.”

Theon could see there was no swaying her. He nodded. “Alright.”

“You bought time, that’s all. Made a play for better conditions, right? So we can do it smart.” She caressed his cheek. “You’re going to be free.”

Theon felt such a rush of affection for her then. She was still trying to save him, even now. He would let her have that, let her think that he hadn’t given up. As if binding himself to Ramsay had been some clever maneuver to better his situation until they got around to ending the dark god’s life.

He couldn’t change her nature any more than she could change his.

* * *

**Winter 50-something**

Theon had been in the darkness for so long, he wasn’t sure if he could even survive the light. If he would burn or wither away on contact. Sometimes Ramsay brought a torch with him for his visits, and Theon could only shrink away and marvel at its power like the early men had at the first fire.

He couldn’t remember what he’d done wrong. It must have been terrible.

His world had shrunk down to the small confines of his cell in the dungeon. The putrid air was thick with blood and misery, among other things, and it was all Theon had known for weeks. He almost didn’t feel the cold anymore. He was aware of it, conscious of the chill in the numbness of his feet and stinging of his skin, but it had become the default state. The quiet pressed in all around him, choking him, broken only by distant screams and nearby chittering of rats.

The sound of nearing footsteps had him perking up. Oh please. _Please_.

The sound of a key turning in the cell door had him scrabbling from the darkest shadows. The door swung open and he all but through himself onto The Huntsman’s feet.

“My lord, you’re here, thank you-“ he was babbling, barely coherent.

He’d been left alone for so long and the solitude had been driving him further to the brink. Who would have thought that isolation could cut as cruelly as any blade? Theon would happily submit himself to a flaying, a whipping, anything just to escape this darkened pit.

The Huntsman watched him through bright, unknowable eyes.

“You must have been awfully lonesome, poor thing. Have you learned your lesson?”

Theon nodded frantically even though he couldn’t recall why he was here at all.

“Yes, yes, I’m so sorry-“

“And you’re hungry, aren’t you?”

The Huntsman drew Theon’s attention to the gleaming prize in his hand.

The apple was such a deep shade of red that Theon had almost mistaken it for a fist-sized ruby. He had never seen anything so perfect. The apple was ripe and plump, its brilliant skin unblemished. Theon could smell its sweet fragrance and his mouth began to water.

“It’s yours. Take it.”

Theon reached for it with trembling, ruined fingers. Then he stopped.

“What is it?” Ramsay asked sharply. “You’re not hungry? You want me to starve you out another week, is that it?”

Theon shook his head fervently, but he still could not make himself take the fruit.

“I can’t.”

“Why the hell not!?”

Theon only continued to shake his head. He wanted it, oh he wanted it so dearly. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t remember why, but it was very important. The most important.

Ramsay growled and Theon skittered away from his wrath like a spooked mouse.

“Don’t be angry my lord, I’m sorry, I-“ Theon tried to make himself small. “Let me apologize, let me please you-“

“Please me? In this state?” Ramsay snorted in disgust. “But you want to make me happy don’t you?”

“Yes! Of course-“

“And you love me.”

Theon froze. Ramsay’s eyes were wide and wild, unblinking.

“Yes. I. I love you.”

Something flickered in Ramsay’s gaze. “Like you mean it.”

Panic ignited in Theon’s chest. “I m-mean it! I do, I lo-“

Ramsay shoved him away. “I should have fucking known. Even now, you think you’re too good for me? Ungrateful _wretch_. _”_

“No, no, wait!“ Theon was desperately scrabbling across the floor. “Don’t go, don’t leave me-“

It was too late. The cell door was already slamming shut, with Ramsay’s heavy footfalls fading down the corridor. Theon wailed after him, hands and fists pounding on the door in his wake.

* * *

**Present Day**

Yara had been reluctant to let Theon go, but neither could she do much to stop him. She was no longer his queen.

He had helped her back to her ship and then back to her undersea castle. She would be tending her own wounds for a while yet. Not as long as Euron would for his, at least. He left her to the attendance of her servants before making back for the mainland. The going was far more mild, the oceans calm and winds easy. Spring was on the air.

If Robb’s guards were surprised to see him they quickly covered it. They exchanged wary glances but let him through the gates of the North King’s palace. Theon walked the grand corridors with purpose and familiarity until he came to the royal chamber.

He knocked twice before letting himself in.

Jon was already there, looking tired at Robb’s bedside. At Theon’s appearance he gave a quick double take.

“Theon. You’re here.”

“I am.”

The silence spoke volumes.

“I heard about your,” Jon paused. “Wedding.”

Theon nodded solemnly.

“You will get no congratulations from me.”

“I expect none.”

“One hopes that whatever you bartered was worth it,” Jon said. “Did I make a mistake in keeping my silence?”

“You know you didn’t. No one wants Robb and Yara going to war over me, not with each other and not with the Dread Lord.”

Jon looked at him, dark eyes always so somber and knowing. “I don’t understand you, Theon.”

Theon shrugged. He could only be grateful that Jon was such a pragmatic man. Though he had little love to lose for Theon to start with, he was also a man of honor. It probably burdened him to keep secrets from Robb, but he was still sensible enough to see that it was for the king’s own benefit.

“Is it nearly time?”

The pair of them looked to Robb, still sleeping in his kingly bed. He looked peaceful.

“Soon.”

They remained in comfortable silence together. It was a familiar pattern to their youth: the two of them, sat across from one another with Robb in between them. Yet all the spite and bile from those faraway days had drained. They were both different men now, hardened in their own ways from the winters they’d since seen.

It was with the first rays of springtime sunrise that Robb began to stir. A stretch, a mumble. Then his eyes opened.

Robb blinked with budding clarity at the chamber around him. His gaze first fell on Jon, then Theon.

“Theon?” The smile that spread over his face was enough to light the heavens by itself. “You’re here! So that means…”

It meant Theon was not in the islands. It meant Theon was not a pelagic god any longer.

The embrace was sudden and crushing, with Robb all but toppling them both to the floor. “This is- I can’t-“

“He got married,” Jon said stonily, arms folded over his chest. “Guess who.”

Robb froze. Slowly he pulled away, hands still gripping Theon’s arms. “Married? Not… not to…”

Theon shot Jon a dirty look before sighing haplessly. “It was. A really nice ceremony. I wish you’d been there.”

Jon snorted. Theon considered taking off a shoe and throwing it at him.

Pure bewilderment was the only way to describe Robb’s expression. It was probably a lot to wake up to.

“You just told me you were lovers last summer. Now you’re _married_?” Robb asked. “I don’t understand.”

“Ramsay and I have been negotiating things between us for a while. It was time,” Theon said carefully. “Yara already knows.”

Robb’s expression immediately darkened. “Does she. Should I expect more angry letters?”

“I hope not.”

Robb sat back on the bed, looking dazed. “This is a bit much this early. I suppose I’ll have to meet with him.”

“What?” Theon twitched. “Him. _Him_ , him? Ramsay?”

“Of course. You’re a hibernal god now by virtue of this union. And I’ve been leaving the dread realm out of sight and out of mind for long enough. It’s overdue that we open a line of communication with them,” Robb said seriously. “Especially with a new era dawning too, now. Who knows what it’ll bring.”

“So long as it’s not another war, I’ll be satisfied,” Jon muttered.

“I can't stay long and you won't likely see me on the summer solstice," Theon said hesitantly.

Yara would mind the salt wives for one spring, and with him now a hibernal the summertime hostage agreement was done.

"I need to get going. Back to him,” he continued. “He’s surely waiting.”

_And very, very angry._

“He can wait a while longer. I’m starving and you’ve traveled far.” Robb took him by the hand. “Stay a while.”

“I can hardly refuse my king.”

The grip on his hand tightened, leading him into the new spring.

* * *

**Winter ????**

There were times in the dread realm where Theon felt hollow. Carved out and empty, like Ramsay had stripped him of everything he was and had until there was only a shell left. Just a vessel for Ramsay to reshape and refill with whatever he wanted there instead.

There were other times where Theon didn’t feel empty at all, but full to bursting with things he couldn’t bear or understand. Rage and despair, frustration and confusion and mourning. Swollen with his own pains.

He currently felt caught between those two states, lying atop the sheets of a small bed. Both wrists were chained to bolts overhead, his ankles shackled to the bed frame. His face was still wet and would remain so; he’d been prone to spontaneous bursts of tears. Every time he thought he was done, the pain between his legs would break him down again.

He could still hear Kyra’s screams in his ears. Every time he closed his eyes he saw her face, desperate and fearful as hellhounds bore down on her.

Ramsay clicked his tongue as he changed Theon’s bandages, ministrations uncharacteristically gentle.

“My, my. They say the Driftwood Prince is a god of pleasure. Now that I’ve taken this… what are you, really?”

Theon screwed his eyes shut, shoulders trembling with stifled whimpers. He didn’t want to think about how the Boys had dragged him from the sight of Kyra’s body and held him down. How Ramsay had stood over him with a gelding blade, a manic grin on his face that didn’t match the fury in his eyes.

It wasn’t fair.

“Well let’s think about it,” Ramsay said, carefully checking over the wound where Theon’s manhood had been. “A god of the sea… who isn’t in the sea. A god of archery missing his fingers. A god of fertility who’s got no cock… hm. Doesn’t leave much left, does it?”

Theon sniffled, cheek pressed miserably into his pillow.

“Now don’t be that way. We’ll find something new for you. Something better suited. You’ll see.”

Ramsay looked almost lovingly at his work before applying the fresh bandages. He’d never been so deliberate with Theon’s wounds before.

“It’s so much less to worry about, just being mine.”

* * *

**Present Day**

The dread realm was harder to find in spring. With Robb awake, the barriers between worlds once again held strong. However the underworld was Theon’s home now, and at the mouth of the Weeping Water it wasn’t long before a pass opened up to him.

The realm was not much changed in spring. The air was clearer, the cold a little less severe, the river flowed a little freer. That was it. It was still a place of perpetual night and the snow lay in thick blankets upon the ground.

He followed the river and navigated the trees until the imposing behemoth of the Dreadfort loomed large overhead. The portcullis raised for him, the great doors opened.

Theon braced himself.

He found the Huntsman sat in his throne, firelight crackling and casting ominous shadows upon him. Ramsay looked at him with eyes simmering with cold fury.

“Look who it is. My errant bride, crawling back after slinking out of our marriage bed like a snake.”

“It was an emergency,” Theon said evenly. “My sister was in trouble. You wouldn’t have let me leave so early.”

“You’ve been gone for days.” Ramsay glowered. “Many emergencies, was it?”

Theon had nothing to say to that. Ramsay smoothly dismounted his throne, cloak trailing behind him.

“I came back for spring,” Theon said, starting to feel nervous. “I didn’t have to. I-“

He stopped at the sight of Ramsay’s knife glinting in the firelight.

“I don’t ask for much,” Ramsay said cooly. “Obedience. Loyalty. Trust is the foundation of a good union, yes?”

“Y-yes.”

“I know I’ve been terribly lenient on you of late,” Ramsay said, drawing closer. “Honeymoon and all that. But I see I’m going to have to… re-emphasize my expectations.”

“My lord-“

“First things first,” Ramsay said, reaching into his cloak.

Theon was reeled in by the knife lightly hooked under his chin, point just about threatening to break the skin. Ramsay produced an apple, big and bright and crimson as Theon remembered. The fruit was held expectantly before him, as one would offer food to a horse.

“We’ll call it an insurance policy. Alright?” Ramsay’s eyes gleamed. “No more doubts between us.”

Theon looked warily down at the apple. Nothing lived forever, not titans and not gods. When Theon’s family died, their essence went back to the nature from whence it came. If Theon did this, that fate would not be his to share. He would come here. Even in death there would be no leaving Ramsay’s side.

He looked up to meet Ramsay’s eyes. Slowly, cautiously, he sank his teeth into the apple’s tart skin. Its juice washed his tongue and dribbled from his lips. It was sour, but also with a heady sweetness that lingered long after he swallowed.

Ramsay regarded him warmly. He dropped what remained of the apple to the floor.

“Good boy.” He skirted his blade along the line of Theon’s throat. “Now. Let’s begin.”

* * *

**WINTER 1**

Theon hadn’t known what to think when he heard the horn blowing beyond the trees. A hunting party so late at night was rather irregular. Some idiot making a ruckus in winter?

Then he heard the hounds, their baying too loud and ghastly to belong to any creature of this earth. He had seen the shrines dedicated to the Lord Huntsman ( _lord_ , as if he hadn’t been born as mortal and base as one could be), but didn’t think much of it. Not his business. Whatever morbid practices the humans partook in to survive winter was their prerogative.

As the howls and shrieks of the wild hunt grew closer, Theon got more and more nervous. He was deep in the woods, having been following the trail of dead animals that had been haunting him all autumn. There was nothing and no one around him for miles.

Then the first arrow whistled through the air, skimming his arm. He ran.

He ran through the snow and the brush, the cold winter wind biting his skin and burning his throat. He didn’t know where he was going, except away from the madman shooting at him. The only light was from that large, round moon up above, heavy and bathed in red light that almost stained the snow pink.

It was an arrow to the back of his leg that finally felled him, sending Theon crashing to the ground with a cry. He desperately dragged himself through the knee-deep snow as the sound of hoofbeats drew nearer.

“Well that wasn’t half bad,” the rider called to him, bringing his steed to a halt. “You sure can run when you need to.”

The rider was a man who nearly blended in with the night itself; his skin fair as snow and hair black as night, with eyes pale and blue like icy stars. At the rider’s heels arrived too impossibly massive hounds, snarling andpanting clouds of steam from their ivory jaws.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Theon demanded, voice strained with pain. “Do you know who I-“

“I know exactly who you are.” The rider dismounted, crimson cloak leaving trails in the snow. “The question is, do you?”

“What-?” Theon looked at him in utter bewilderment, a hand still clutched at where the arrow was piercing his skin. “I don’t-“

“Ah, how rude of me. Let me help you with that.” The man grabbed the arrow shaft and wrenched it free without mercy.

Theon’s screams echoed far and loud across the trees, blood seeping through his trousers and across his fingers. He was then roughly thrown onto his stomach, leaving him wheezing and choking on snow.

“What are you- wait!”

“I’ve waited long enough.”

Theon felt gloved hands wrenching down his breeches and was instantly seized by raw panic.

“No! No, no no please-“ A hand on the back of his head pushed him face-first into the snow.

“I hate that word,” the rider muttered, unbuckling his own belt. “You’ll figure it out. We’ll have _loads_ of time to get to know each other.”

The pain of first penetration was indescribable, heightened by fear and disbelief. Across the lands his cries could be heard, intermingling with the howling of hellbeasts beneath the swollen Hunter’s Moon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s finally done!! This is not the end of the mythology series, but the “main arc” so to speak, has concluded.
> 
> -The Huntsman and Prince’s wedding day is based on various pagan festivals:  
> > Imbolc (the winter new year festival)  
> > Barri (Norse celebration of the marriage between fertility god Freyr and mother earth Gerd)  
> > Lupercalia (the darker and sexier Roman version of Valentine’s Day). Lupercalia involved sacrifices, a feast, and men who ran naked through the streets (in the middle of winter!) smacking people with strips of leather - which was believed to bless them with fertility. There was also a matchmaking/sex lottery, where women basically put their names in a hat for men to draw out at random. Some pairs only coupled for the festival, but it was common for them to stay together and marry.  
> > Theogamia (festival honoring the union between Hera and Zeus). An anniversary celebration for the gods that took place primarily in Hera’s temple. Unfortunately many of the rites for goddesses are lost to time, as they were kept secret and practiced exclusively by women, and men are the primary recorders of history.  
> > Beltane: A festival of fire celebrating the union between the father god (Green Man) and mother goddess (Queen of May) was celebrated. Sometimes a man and woman were elected to play the parts of the gods and recreate the consummation, which was believed to bring fertility to the fields. A “Common Riding” also took place, which is when riders ceremonially rode around the borders of the settlement.  
> > Orgia: ceremonial orgy. Ancient Greeks and Romans were no strangers to incorporating orgies into their festivals, especially for gods of fertility and sexuality. Copious amounts of wine which may or may not be spiked with aphrodisiac played a part.
> 
> -Theon holding up the night sky is a pretty obvious reference to the titan Atlas. Jeyne’s journey into the underworld and her tasks is a reference both to Orpheus and the Trials of Hercules.
> 
> -The hunter that Ramsay punishes for being boastful is based on many, many similar stories from myth. I think specifically there were a few times Apollo and/or Artemis cursed hunters by turning them into stags to be hunted by dogs.
> 
> -While the conflict of Yara and Euron is as mentioned, based on the Sea Mither and Teran, I did also throw a bit of Odin into Euron's mix. Especially with the whole eye thing.


End file.
